


The Legomance Song Fic

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Fic, F/M, Guess the lyrics competition, POV actually appears in the text, Parody of bad fic, Song fic, Tick off the Mary Sue traits as you go along, Truly awful original poetry, random POV shifts, urgh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23769616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: Because we all need as much silliness as we can get right now.A number of years ago a friend and I had a competition to write a fic (under a pseudonym) which picked out as many possible tropes of "bad fic" as possible, while still producing something readable (ish).  The rules of the games were that the story also had to be "played with a straight bat" - we had to try to make it look like a plausible attempt at a serious story.  Additionally I chose to write to a set of story prompts taken from a song; all the love scenes had to be prompted by lines from one of my favourite Victoria Wood songs (which is why I'm posting it: yesterday was the 4th anniversary of Victoria's death -  RIP most wonderful of comics!)Update: no one was playing the quiz, so here it is, the song in question:The Ballad of Barry and FredaNow with song lyrics in the text.With profound apologies to anyone who encountered this in its original incarnation, who was taken in. (But really - soul-bonded telepathic snow leopard familiar?  You probably should have guessed.)
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Eruanne's POV

Eruanne brushed the foliage aside with her fingers. Beneath the starlight her keen Elven eyes made out rank upon rank of tall warriors. Their armour glinted. She drew in a sharp breath. Sindar. There was no love lost between her people, the Dark Elves of the East, the Avari, and these tall blond Sindar. But with the rise of the Shadow in the East, they might have common purpose. Or equally, they might be her sworn enemies. Gripping her bow, she brushed her long, dark red braid behind her back and sprang lightly from the tree. With an almost imperceptible movement of long, elegant fingers, she gestured. Out of the shadows, a huge cat-like creature made its way to her side. Her fingers stroked its fur for a moment, then with the lightest of footsteps, she began to track them. At her heels, the giant beast, her soul-joined familiar, weaved between the tree trunks with feline grace.

What was a troop of Sindar doing creeping past the eaves of Fangorn forest? Eruanne puzzled over this as she followed in the shadows of the trees. From the intonation of their voices, she could tell they were Galadhrim from Lothlorien, not from the Greenwood. The Greenwood! Again, she took a deep breath. A wave of furious anger swept over her. She drew her normally full lips into a thin line of rage. Were they from the Greenwood, she would have found it hard to resist putting an arrow to her bow. How many of the accursed folk could she have slain before she lost her own life? She no longer cared if she lived or died, but revenge would have been sweet. But no, she controlled her breathing. These were not the people of Thranduil. She had no quarrel with them. Why then was she following them? Curiosity, pure and simple.

After several hours, they left the eaves of the forest and moved through the foothills of the White Mountains. Following them became harder. She hung back in the shadows of large boulders, her keen green eyes tracking their movements. At long last they entered a narrow valley with a shallow stream cascading down its centre. As she moved with silent grace, she rounded the flank of the hillside and finally saw their destination: a mannish fortress. They marched in files up the narrow causeway, over a sweeping stone arch and across the drawbridge into the fortress. Following as closely as she dared, she got close enough to see the Men high on the ramparts. 

The Men were tall and broad chested, so different in build from the lithe, almost feline Elves. They bore spears and helms which caught the last glimmers of light from the stars, and from beneath their helms she could just make out long blond hair. But the stars were being rapidly blotted out by scudding clouds blowing in from the East. Under cover of the gathering gloom, Eruanne made her way still closer, skirting high up the hillside. She crept along a system of ledges on the savage cliffs which loomed over the fortress. Behind her, the huge cat followed. Even without the darkness, its spotted pelt would have blended into the rocks around them. Only its tawny eyes, flecked with sparks of green, showed up.

Now she was high up, she could see the scene in great detail. The last of the Sindar made their way across the drawbridge, and with a clanking of chains and creaking of wood, it was drawn up behind them. Suddenly the precariousness of her situation hit Eruanne. This was no small military force – this was the preparation for a battle and a siege. And she was on the outside. Outside, with whatever enemy they were preparing for. 

A light drizzle started to fall. Then in the far distance behind her, from the valley she'd just climbed, she heard a low rumbling noise. An army was approaching. Squinting into the gloom, she saw the first vague shadows of the vanguard. Yrch! Orcs, thousands of them. And trolls. And the fearsome half-breeds that she'd seen when she'd ventured through Fangorn to the vale of Orthanc. The trolls towed vast siege engines. The orcs came to a halt in battle lines. They started to bang their spears on their shields, making a huge din. As if to underline the thread, the rain started to fall in earnest, pouring in sheets from the heavens.

She could see the Men standing on the battlements, bows drawn. Her eyes were drawn to a tall figure. Unlike the other Men, he had dark hair, and held a sword aloft. The ranks of archers stood tense, waiting the command to fire. Then a bolt of lightning rent the sky. In the flash of light she saw a second tall figure standing near the dark-haired man. Tall, slim yet muscular, blond, unmistakably Elven. Then a second flash lit him again. Eruanne recoiled back against the cliff face behind her. Thranduil – his harsh, cruel yet beautiful features. She passed her hand across her eyes, then breathed again. No, not the Elven King, but someone so like unto him that they must be close kin. The same arrogance, the same self assurance, the same magnetic attraction...

Then suddenly a lone arrow was loosed, and the huge Uruk at the front of the battle lines pitched forward into the mud. With a roar the hosts of Isengard threw themselves forward. The dark haired man on the battlements dropped his sword, and a hail of arrows fell among the oncoming wave. The battle had commenced. With an air of silent determination, the slight figure of the Elf woman leaped gracefully from ledge to ledge down the cliff to join the fray. Sindar they might be, but they were her people. If she could join battle against the dark hosts, she must.


	2. Chapter 2

Legolas' POV

“Thirteen, Master Elf,” Gimli said smugly. 

“I have surpassed your total easily, mellon nin. Twenty seven so far.” Legolas looked smug. But the battle was far from over. Chaos raged round them. Wave after wave of the enemy had broken upon the ramparts, ladders pushed back from the battlements, siege engines forced away with long poles. Yet still the Orcs came, like black insects swarming over the stonework. A force of the monstrous Uruk Hai came up the stone causeway to the gatehouse, protecting themselves from the hail of arrows with their shields.

Legolas watched as the Galadhrim fired in vain on the advancing hoard on the stone bridge. Try as he might, he couldn't help but think of another battle, half a century earlier. A bloody battle, one in which he had lost so much that was precious to him. For a moment, he lost his focus, grief kicking him as if it was still brand new. But Aragorn's voice brought his attention back to the foot of the walls.

“The torch-bearer! Look to the torch-bearer!” The Man's voice was hoarse with something close to desperation. Breathing calmly, Legolas nocked an arrow to the string. His bow sang as the arrow took flight, straight and true. It punched through the weaker plate at the neck of the orc's armour. But the orc, though dying, was carried forward by his own speed. He pitched out of sight into a recess at the foot of the wall.

A huge explosion rent the air and the wall was torn asunder. The Deeping Wall, which even in the worst nightmares of the Rohirrim had remained unbreachable, was gone. Huge stones sailed into the air and a wall of water, freed from the lake behind, poured through the remains of the narrow culvert. Legolas looked in horror to see Aragorn, face down in the mud, motionless. He had been thrown from the wall into the courtyard behind.

“To the inner keep!” The voice of one of the Rohirrim commanders rang out. His voice was almost drowned out by the yells of the orcs forcing their way through the torrent of water and through the breach. 

With an immense shout of “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”, Legolas' dwarf companion leapt down into the gap, swinging his axe with deadly accuracy. He bought Aragorn precious moments to come to his sense. The man struggled to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear it from the ringing of the concussion. But Legolas could see Gimli about to be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the orcs. Acting on sheer impulse, he ran for the top of the stairs, leaping onto a shield dropped by a fallen defender and balancing on it as he slid in a wild careening descent. As he swept down the steps, he loosed arrow after arrow, pausing only as Aragorn stretched out and pulled the dwarf to safety.

But one friend was saved only for Legolas to watch another fall before his eyes. High on the battlements, an Uruk thrust his weapon into Haldir's stomach. Aragorn set off back up the stairs at a rush, hoping against hope to save the Marchwarden. Legolas watched helpless as the Heir of Isildur arrived only in time to cradle their friend's head as he died. Aragorn rose to his feet.

“To the keep!” he yelled, taking up the earlier cry of the Rohir. “To the keep!”

Then Legolas was swept into the fight once more, drawing his knives to fight at close quarters. One, two, four, half a dozen orcs fell beneath the thrust and parry of his deadly blades. But then two came at him at once, and as he backed up to give himself space, he tripped over a spear which stretched from the hand of a dead warrior. He slid to the ground and the closer of the two orcs lunged forward, sword held high above Legolas' neck.

As the notched, cruelly curved blade descended, Legolas' eyes opened wide. To lose his immortal life thus, amidst the stench of battle between Orcs and Men, on the rain sleeked cold boulders far from the green canopy of his beloved Eryn Galen. He lifted his chin, defiant to the last, proud son of a King. What fear had he of death? He would go to the halls of waiting, perhaps to be reunited with... Then at the very last instant, the descent of the blade was halted by a thin Elven blade, cunningly wrought, its jewelled handle held by a slender hand. The knife's twin buried itself deep in the guts of the orc, who pitched over backwards with a grunt.

Legolas looked up to meet the gaze of the warrior who had saved his life. Cool, appraising green eyes beneath delicate arched brows met his startling blue ones. Skin like alabaster. He felt mesmerised by the sight. A woman... no, an Elleth. A strand of red hair from beneath a hood. Legolas' breath hitched. Memories flooded him. Memories of a lost love, green eyed and red haired. His lost love, hacked down on the battlefield before Erebor, defending the body of her fallen Dwarven lover, more than half a mortal man's lifespan earlier. Dragging the breath back into his lungs, he opened his mouth to speak.

But the figure above him spoke first. “Son of Thranduil,” the maiden hissed. “Had I known whose neck lay beneath that blade, I would not have been so ready to intervene with my own. Live, bastard spawn of the Greenwood, but not with my blessing.” And she turned and leapt from the hillock on which he lay, her lithe figure disappearing into the mists and smoke of battle.


	3. Chapter 3

Eruanne's POV

The battle was finally over. It had seemed for a while as if they would all perish in that dark stone fortress, turned from sanctuary to charnel house by the fire of Orthanc. But with the dawn came the White Wizard and the King's nephew leading the cavalry. And more mysterious still, a host of trees shepherded there by the Ents. The orcs that escaped the swords and spears of the horselords fled into the woods, never to be seen again.

Eruanne had used the confusion to slip away, and now sat on her vantage point on the cliffs high above the battlements. Her great spotted cat, grey speckles upon a pelt as white as snow, lay curled at her feet. Idly, she stroked the fur beneath its great jaw. Just like any domestic cat, it closed its eyes in bliss. 

“You pretend to be fierce, but really you are as soft as butter, Naurwen,” she whispered. The leopard blinked, and twitched the end of its tail languidly. Its pink tongue flicked out and licked its whiskers, giving a glimpse of sharp white fangs. Taking her hand away, Eruanne returned to her task of whetting her two knives.

Two knives... The son of Thranduil had also carried two knives. Strange that he should be armed exactly as she. A strange balance in the universe, perhaps? Night to her day, dark to her light? One day her knives would meet his in the most ancient of dances. They would be well matched, and she would be revenged. She gave her head a shake to clear it. What had her teacher said, too many scores of years ago to be counted? Live in the moment, dwell not in the past, nor look to the future. To take one's attention from the moment is to open a gap in one's armour through which the enemy's sword will surely find its mark.

And yet, and yet... She could not keep the memories at bay.

_Flashback_

Her sister lay in her arms, a broken thing, like a bird whose wing was shattered beyond repair. Fading, fading. 

“Sing to me, Eruanne. Sing the lullabies our mother used to sing to us. Sing to me, my Cúnë Yávë,” she whispered through dry, parched lips.

Eruanne smiled despite the tears. How much she'd hated that nickname when they were both children. The name Firiel had given her after she'd eaten so many of those strange fruits from the far Harad that she'd been sick. And yet now, instead of angering her, it caressed her with memories of a carefree childhood filled with light and laughter.

Her voice breaking with sorrow, she started to sing the lullaby their mother had sung to them as they slept side by side in soft sheets, covered by a quilt of finest down, a canopy of rose coloured chiffon above their bed.

“Hush little hummingbird, rest on the branch  
Tuck your head beneath your wing  
Ada is here to keep you safe  
Listen to your Naneth sing  
Hush little hummingbird, go to sleep,  
Naneth's here, her watch to keep”  


Eruanne's voice faltered. Her sister's eyes had closed, her breath coming in gentle, shallow movements – too gentle, too shallow. Knowing that her sister would not see her to be upset, Eruanne let the tears come.

_The Present_

“Live in the moment.” In her mind, Eruanne heard her teacher's voice come to her. What now? Her sorrow hardened into anger. She would follow the son of Thranduil. Yes, that would be a fitting vengeance – to see the Elven King suffer as she had suffered. And the way to do that was through his son. 

Her resolve made, she sheathed her knives and bent her head to whisper to Naurwen.

“Stand guard, my faithful one. Wake me when there is movement within the fortress. I want to follow them when they move out – the Dwarf, the tall, dark-haired Man and the accursed Elf from the Greenwood.” The leopard regarded her steadily from its tawny eyes, its tail waving. Knowing that the cat would keep watch, Eruanne lay down on the ledge and stared up at the clouds, blending waking thought and dreams in the manner of Elves.

-x-

For the next few days she tracked the strangers. They followed the White Wizard and the King of the Horselords through the forest. From her vantage in the trees to the side of the track, she listened to the easy banter between the Dwarf and the Elf. How could he sound so carefree, she asked herself. She followed them to Orthanc and back. She watched as they took their leave of the King of the Horselords and his nephew. 

All the time her attention focused above all on the blond Elf. She watched him laugh with his comrades, and hated him. She watched him show care towards others and saw only hypocrisy. She watched him simply walk or ride his horse, or at rest. She hated every fibre of his being, and yet... and yet. She could see the allure – high chiselled cheek bones, startling blue eyes, hair like spun mithril, white-gold beneath the midday sun. But the allure hid only the underlying cruelty, of this she was certain.

Eventually she followed them to Dunharrow where they met with more Elves - High Elves; and more men, tall and dark-haired like the man, Thranduillion's close companion, who had held the sword aloft on the battlements some nights earlier.

A tall, fair woman, a high lady among the Horse People, girt in mail and with a sword by her side, brought a farewell cup, and bade goodbye to the Elves and their hooded, fell-looking, dark-haired mortal companions. Eruanne watched as the woman's eyes lingered on the tall man. You love him, she thought, sudden recognition waking in her soul. You love him, you fool. Flee, for love leads only to ruin and death.

The elleth followed the company up the winding narrow valley until it came to an end. The company marched through an avenue of standing stones, ancient stones, ancient even to one who was immortal. Then the tall dark man uttered a command, ancient stone door swung open. The company filed in, in single file, and the doors swung shut behind them, leaving Eruanne outside.

Laying her hands on the shoulders of Naurwen, she cursed her ill-fortune. Then she considered her next move. The Horselords had mustered and rode to war in distant Gondor. Surely destruction and ruin lay at the end of their journey. She smiled to herself. Destruction and ruin was her fate, she was sure of this. And if the fates smiled on her, her path would surely cross with that of the son of Thranduil, amid the destruction and ruin.


	4. Chapter 4

Legolas' POV

The group set up camp. They were still a day's journey from Dunharrow. Legolas stood at the edge of the encampment looking out over the plains of Rohan. Aragorn moved nearly silently to the Elf's shoulder  
In the evening light the undulating grassland looked silvery grey to the ranger's eye: he wondered how it looked to the keener eyes of his companion. Did he still see the grass as green despite the failing light?

They stood in silence for a while, taking a quiet solace in one another's company. Eventually Legolas spoke.

"Do you feel as if we are being followed, mellon nin?"

" Yes, for some days now, in fact since the ride to Isengard. You sense a presence too?"

"Aye. What feel you of its intent?" Legolas' face was impassive. He did not want to influence Aragorn's answer, interested in what the man's gut feeling was.

"It does not feel to me to be malevolent. I sense no workings of the Enemy," the Ranger answered, in measured, thoughtful tones.

"For my part, I do not sense the workings either of the Dark Lord to the East or of Orthanc. Yet I feel the hairs on my neck rise. I do not think, whatever it is, that it is well disposed towards me." The Elf gave one of his characteristic faint smiles, little more than a tiny quirk of the corner of his lips. "Perhaps, though,"he continued, wryly, "It bears a grudge against me alone, and not the party as a whole, and that is why you sense no ill will."

Aragorn picked up on his companion's attempt to lighten the mood, and responded in kind. "Ah, mellon nin, what dark deeds from the centuries before my birth do you bear the guilt for, to have mysterious enemies tracking you across the plains of Rohan so far from the Greenwood?"

Legolas gave one of his rare laughs, a sound all the more beguiling, Aragorn thought, for the infrequency of its occurrence. "Naught I have done, I'll wager. I rarely antagonise people - barring the Dwarf, of course." Legolas' words were belied by an affectionate smile. But then the smile faded as remembered words echoed in his mind. Bastard spawn of the Greenwood. "But then again, who is to say it is something I have done? My father is not exactly renowned for his easy way with people."

"Look! West towards the mountains!" 

Legolas followed the gesture Aragorn made. A flash of movement, disappearing into a faint hollow in the grassland. The briefest of glimpses of the tail of some lithe and graceful beast.

"A lynx," Aragorn said.

"Nay, a snow leopard," the Elf answered.

"This far below the snow line?" the man responded. Seeing his companion raise a sardonic eyebrow, he quickly continued. "But no, I defer to your superior sight." He paused for a moment. "I wonder..."

"You wonder what?"

"No, 'tis nothing of any import. Just an old campaigner's tale from my days serving the old Steward, Ecthelion." He gave his head a shake as if to shed some fey mood. "Come, let's see if Master Gimli has left any of the stew for us."

-x-

Legolas sensed that the mystery follower still dogged their heels over the next few days. But even his keen azure eyes could not make out any trace, barring the glimpse of the leopard which he sensed was in some way connected with whoever was tracking them. No trace, that was, until the very last moment. 

The group of Rangers of the North and Elves, plus Gimli, had ridden up the narrow, forbidding valley. Grey slopes of scree ran steeply down the valley sides. Meagre grass clung in patches to the slopes, and a thin turf covered the floor of the valley. Finally they reached their destination, the dreaded Paths of the Dead. Steeling themselves, the party made their way into the narrow tunnel that led under the mountains. Beneath the shadow of the Dwimorberg, as the gate to the Paths swung shut behind him, Legolas cast one last glance over his shoulder at the world of light and sky he was leaving behind. And there, in the shade of one of the standing stones that had lined the road up the Harrowdale, just for one fleeting instant he saw the figure of a lithe, shapely feminine figure, her red hair blazing in the evening sun, emerald eyes glinting as she surveyed his retreating figure.

Eruanne's POV

It was several days since Eruanne had watched the horselords disappear into the hillside. She now followed the Horselords and their troops through the wilds of Anorien. In the evenings she watched their camp fires from a distance. Naurwen lay beside her, the leopard's head resting on the Elf's lap. Eruanne looked into the cat's tawny eyes. She sensed the accusatory feeling at the back of the animal's mind. She ruffled her fur and spoke in a low voice.

“You are right, as always. I must not let my hatred for the Prince of Mirkwood distract me from our real task. We need to find our way to the library of the lore masters in Minas Tirith – and Minas Tirith is under siege. Thus our best hope is to follow these troops and pray to the Valar that they manage to lift the siege.” 

Eruanne sat in silence and contemplated the task before her. 

The ancient tales of Eruanne's people told of a woodland realm, Amrûn Galen, further to the East. For millenia, they had lived there peacefully. But then a dark shadow had fallen over their land. The Black Easterling, Khamûl, one of the nine mortal men enslaved by the nameless one, came to their land and laid waste to it. Eventually, his lord and master summoned Khamûl to his stronghold, Dol Guldur. But Khamûl left his daughter, the evil sorceress Elohtolpa, to rule over his slaves, the Dark Elves of Amrûn Galen. Half an age of Arda ago, they could take her cruelty no longer. They fled their ancestral lands. Eruanne had been a young elf as she followed her mother through the winter snows, skirting through the wild lands to the north of the Ered Lithui. The trek had taken half a year, through frozen wastes and across the dread ancient battlefield of the Dead Marshes, where green lights flickered above pools filled with the wights of ancient battle dead. At last, they reached sanctuary on the northern slopes of the Ephel Duath.

At that time, before the return of the shadow, those mountains were bleak and threatening, but not yet filled with evil as they were later to become. In her mind's eye, she could see the slopes of North Ithilien. For many lifetimes of men, she and her people had lived there, for the most part in peace. But then the Necromancer returned from his stronghold in Mirkwood to his age-old fastness of Barad Dur. In these more recent years, bands of orcs had laid waste to the verdant groves of her people. They now eked out a tenuous existence amid the sick and dying trees. 

When her sister finally made her way back to their community, as frail as the trees among which they lived, Eruanne had sworn a solemn vow. She would find the stone of power which alone could overthrow the sorceress Elohtolpa. The clues to its whereabouts were to be found in the ancient scrolls dating from the time of the Steward of Gondor many centuries earlier, Narmacil. And the scrolls were inside Minas Tirith, which was surrounded by the hosts of Mordor.


	5. Chapter 5

Eruanne had tracked the Rohirrim throughout their journey. She could not help but notice the slighter rider among the tall, broad-shouldered men of Rohan. The rider's features remained hidden, either beneath a helm, or the hood of a cloak, but the Elf could not help but notice the eyes. Haunted eyes, glittering blue grey, full of pain and loss. So like the eyes of her sister, haunted by the pain of lost love. And like her sister, this rider sought only death. Do not give up the fight, Eruanne's mind whispered, urging the rider to find hope. She had watched her sister fade day after day. She would not wish that fate upon another being, whether Elf or Mortal. Live, live for those who do love you. But she watched as the rider moved into the long line of cavalry, and knew that the doom the rider faced was beyond her power to change.

With a great roaring cry the horsemen surged forward. Eruanne's breath caught for a moment as she stood in stunned silence at the sight. Then on fleet Elven feet, she started to run across the battlefield towards the distant walls of Minas Tirith. In the portion of the battlefield she was crossing, most of the orcs and men in league with Mordor had been slain by the wave of cavalry. But Eruanne's bow sang with arrows as she picked off the few remaining enemies who posed a threat to her. By her side, Naurwen took bounding strides, teeth bared and ready to deal with any threat to her mistress.

Suddenly dread fingers of fear clutched at Eruanne like some sort of black, enveloping tidal wave. She looked up for a moment, and shrank back against the ground. Over her head, one of the fell beasts of the air circled. Too well she knew the hideous fear they brought. Khamûl, one of the nine, had held sway over the lands of her birth. She had thought that there was nothing about their cruelty she did not know. Yet in the presence of the dark shadow sweeping over her, she sensed a strength and cruelty and power beyond that even of Khamûl. Dread tales had reached her people of the lord who ruled over Khamûl, the witch king from the far north, from Angmar. 

She reached out blindly to bury her fingers in Naurwen's fur, seeking comfort. Beneath her hand, she could feel all the hair on Naurwen's neck standing straight up. A quick glance confirmed that the giant cat felt the fell presence as keenly as she did. But then, like the sun coming out after a storm, the shadow passed, moving further over the battlefield to where the horselords were engaged in the front line of the fight. From a distance she saw their King's horse hacked down, and their King fall beneath the huge charger, pinned to the ground by his own mount. The fell beast circled lower and lower, then came to rest near by, slicing the dying horse's belly with its claw.

Eruanne started to run. But there was no hope of her getting there in time. Her keen Elven sight saw that the King was not alone. A slim figure intervened, standing between the cloaked rider and his prey. Eruanne realised with a start that it was the sorrowful young figure she had picked out of the line of horsemen earlier. She watched as the black cloaked wraith taunted the figure, then looked in amazement as the slender knight cast aside cloak and helm to reveal tumbling blonde hair. The woman who had looked so filled with sadness at Harrowdale was now standing over the body of her fallen kinsman, defending him to the last. The witch king shattered her shield with a blow of his mace, and Eruanne thought that the woman must surely be slain. But then suddenly the wraith stumbled and the woman was able to drive her sword into the shadowy mist between breast plate and crown. The cloak crumpled to the ground. Then, with a faint cry, the woman herself fell and slid to lie, motionless, at the scene of the fight.

Eruanne didn't know what had come over her. Earlier, she had seen in the mortal maiden some echo of her lost sister. Something about the girl's sadness had touched her. She could not leave her alone, her body to be despoiled by orcs. But what of her quest? The safety of her whole people rested on her; she could not abandon them on a sentimental whim. On the spur of the moment she reached a decision.

“Naurwen, run. Do not let yourself be seen, but guard the body of the lady of the horse people until her own folk can take her to safety, whether to live or to be laid to rest.” She ran her hand over the leopard's pelt, feeling the beast's shoulders and haunches tense. Then, like an arrow from a bow, the cat sped off to do her bidding.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Time stretched out as Eruanne fought her way through the chaos of the battlefield. She picked her way through corpses from both sides, occasionally having to skirt round pockets of fighting. She was not a coward, but her aim was not to fight, but simply to reach the city and the information within it. Finally, she got with half a mile or so of the shattered gates.

Eruanne slung her bow across her back, seeing (as she thought) a clear path towards the citadel. But behind her she heard a noise, the snapping of the shaft of a spear. She spun to find not one but two Southrons advancing on her, their armour glistening, gold bands round their necks and arms, red cloaks tattered and torn by the day's horrors. The nearer of the two was tall, his profile like a bird of prey, a livid scar upon his cheek. The second, moving to the side to outflank her, was smaller but muscular. Both carried the cruel curved swords of the Haradrim and round shields with a vicious spike in the centre of each.

With a fluid grace she reached behind her back. Her daggers gave a shimmering, singing noise as she drew them smoothly from their sheaths. The Southrons continued their path trying to get one either side of her. But Eruanne knew from long experience that the weakness of two men trying to attack one lay in the lack of coordination they could bring to bear. Feinting slightly to her left, she drew in one of her attackers, only to dance out of his reach, pirouette on one foot and swirl round, bringing her dagger across the throat of the other. As he pitched forward, she lunged forward in a smooth continuation of her earlier movement, thrusting the second dagger into the heart of the other attacker.

She started to run towards the city walls, but suddenly in her peripheral vision she saw a huge grey shape. Turning, she saw a huge mumak, eyes wide, red mouth gaping, lurching towards her. On its back she caught sight of a familiar blond figure, bow drawn, firing arrows into the monstrous beast's neck. The distraction was almost her undoing. As the mumak crashed to the ground, a huge uruk brought his battle axe crashing down towards her unguarded flank. Dodging at the last minute, she found herself unbalanced, at the creature's mercy. As the uruk loomed over her, she felt rather than heard a rush of air by her ear. A pale dagger flew past and embedded itself between the uruk's eyes. Without so much as a sound, it crumpled to the ground at her feet.

“And thus my debt is paid, and we are all square, my mysterious lady of the daggers,” said a cool voice from behind her. She whirled to find herself face-to-face with the son of Thranduil.

To her fury, he raised an eyebrow and looked at her appraisingly. “We seem fated to meet, my lady. Anyone would think you were seeking me out. Or perhaps that was another leopard I saw on the road to Dunharrow?” She could have sworn that she saw the corner of his mouth threatening to quirk into a sardonic smile. But then a black-feathered arrow sped between them, missing him by a hairsbreadth.

“Perhaps you should worry less about my movements and more about the enemy,” Eruanne hissed through clenched teeth, readying her own daggers.

With seeming casual ease, her unwanted companion plucked an arrow from behind him, strung it to his bow and fired. The arrow took out both the orc who had shot at them, and the orc behind.

“It seems we have company,” he said, laconically. “A lot of company. Would you care to wager which of us will kill the most?” 

Then the horde of orcs swept towards them, and Eruanne found herself fighting back-to-back with the Elf she despised, in a desperate, unwanted contest driven more by the desire to stay alive than the desire to win.


	6. Chapter 6

_  
I'm on fire  
With desire  
I could handle half the tenors in a male voice choir,  
Let's do it, let's do it tonight  
_

Legolas' POV

She was an impressive fighter, he would concede that much. Legolas had run out of arrows and was now fighting with his twin daggers, slicing his way through the orcs. Every so often, he took sidelong glances at the Elleth by his side. Her moves were economical yet graceful, and utterly deadly. As she swirled and dodged, her hair streamed out like a banner of flame. Legolas nearly got caught by the pike wielded by yet another of the black horde. He mentally pulled himself up – he was allowing himself to get distracted. But who wouldn't get distracted, he thought? The way she moved, the way her armour somehow did nothing to hide her feminine curves. But her attitude! She clearly hated him for some imagined wrong. 

Legolas gave a smile in spite of the gravity of the situation. Well, he had always liked a challenge. He looked fleetingly over his shoulder.

“Seven,” he said, with a certain smugness.

“Eight,” she responded, before kicking her leg high to catch a tall orc beneath the chin. As he tumbled, she stabbed him up under the ribs. “Nine.”

“Not bad,” Legolas admitted. He crossed his wrists, then swiftly uncrossing his arms, sliced cleanly with his daggers and took off the head of one of the goblins. A move I learned at my father's knee, he thought. Then he vaulted over the carcass of a mumak, before landing with a cat-like grace and delivering a killer blow to another orc. “And now we are even,” he said, triumphantly.

“Not quite,” she said. She stepped on the blade of a sword, letting its hilt catapult up and into her open hand. In a single fluid motion, she swept it up and behind her, slicing the last of the orcs who had been trying to creep up on her.

“That would appear to be the last of them. Which, if I have counted correctly, gives me the victory.” She gave an almost feral smile. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have business elsewhere.” She set off at a run towards the city, leaping over obstacles. Legolas watched her figure disappear into the distance. She might hate him, but what a spirit. Her grace and bravery was captivating. In all the years since he first walked the green glades of Arda, he had never felt himself drawn to another in this way. His reverie was interrupted by a familiar gruff voice.

“What's got into you, laddie? Looking all dreamy on a battlefield?” Legolas turned to see Gimli.

“Thirty five, master Elf,” the dwarf announced with a grin.

Legolas rapidly added his latest kills to the total. “Forty three, master Dwarf.”

“Aye, but the mumak only counts as one, no matter how fancy the footwork!”

“Only counts as one! Why, you miserly son of stone!”

Gimli cast an arm round his outraged friend's shoulder. “C'mon laddie, there's still work to be done nearer to the city gates.”

Eruanne's POV

Eruanne sat high on one of the few unbroken sections of the outer wall. The outermost circle of the city was utter chaos. The few buildings not destroyed by the enemy's catapults were on fire. Amid the heaps of rubble and tumble masonry, dark spires of acrid smoke rose into the air. Small groups of men moved round the ruins like ants. They sought out the wounded and took them to safety, taking their fallen comrades and lying them gently on the ground until graves could be dug. The corpses of their enemies the dragged out through the shattered remains of the gate to be piled into vast pyres out on the plains.

Naurwen had watched over the fallen Rider until her comrades had carried her back into the city. Fearing that a leopard would draw unwanted attention to her, Eruanne had sent her cat to hid in the woods down near the banks of Anduin. She now sat alone on the stones, wondering how best to put her plan into action. She needed some way of making her way up to the higher circles of the city without attracting attention. Some way of blending into the crowd. In any case, now was not the right time: it would take a day or so before the city started to try to piece together a more normal life, then she could make her way to the city archives.

She drew some lembas from her pack and started to nibble the corner of it. Down on the plain, she could see a group of the people of the Horse Lords. They were singing a song to the memory of their fallen comrades. Their voices caught on the wind and floated over to where the Elf sat. There was an earthiness about mortal song, a connectedness with the world, the seasons, the cycle of life and death which Elvish melodies lacked.

She listened. The melody was carried hauntingly by tenor voices, with lower voices filling in the music, creating a wild, plaintive harmony. Somehow it suited the people of the plains. She could imagine them following their herds of horses. Her keen Elven sight could make out the faces of the singers, their blond hair gleaming in the evening light, their faces sad but somehow beautiful. She took a breath. Suddenly another face beneath blond hair had pushed its way before her mind's eye. More beautiful by far than the mortal faces below her, she felt something deep inside her stir at the memory of his grace, the deadly precision of his knives. The way he casually stared death in the face, even laughed at it, taunted it, joking with a nonchalant coolness in the middle of the battlefield. That quirked eyebrow as he challenged her to best him in battle, the wry smile when he realised she had succeeded.

She let out a hiss of breath, and realised her hand had clenched into a fist, nails digging into her palm. She did not find him attractive, would not find him attractive. He was the son of Thranduil. And yet, and yet... had not her sister found Thranduil attractive, and hated herself for doing so?

Flashback

Firiel lay in her sister's arms. Gently, Eruanne stroked her hair back from her face. She raised the goblet of water to her parched lips. Firiel took a tiny sip, almost choking on it, then spoke in a cracked voice.

“He said I would come to love him. And I did. And for that, I can never forgive myself.”


	7. Chapter 7

_  
This folly  
Is jolly.  
Bend me over backwards on me Hostess trolley.  
Let's do it! Let's do it tonight!  
_

The emissary from Mirkwood bowed deeply, but Eruanne's mother, the Queen, was under no illusions. He came with soft words, backed by an army large enough to lay waste to their city.

“My King fears the rise in power of the Mortal Kingdom of the Wainriders,” the Sylvan Elf said.

“As do we all,” Queen Daeris replied.

“But do you?” asked the emissary. “That is the question which has been exercising the mind of my King, Thranduil. He sees the lands you hold sway over, their proximity to those of the Easterling mortals, the relative sizes of your armies. He wonders, were it to come to a choice between loyalty to your own kind, or to the neighbouring kingdom with its military might, which choice you would make. For make no mistake: Khumal and his daughter wish to conquer the lands to the west: Anorien first, then north to Rhovannion. They will wage war on the eastern flank of Eryn Galen.”

Daeris inclined her head the tiniest amount. She would not defer to this Sylvan elf, who came laying accusations of disloyalty at her feet. “Why would you think so little of us to think that we might throw in our lot with mortals? Avari we may be, but nonetheless we are of the firstborn.”

“Alas, if only we could be so confident of your loyalty. Of course, shared heritage should count for most, but you have the wolf living on your doorstep. Who is not to say that you may not be tempted to throw him a bone to appease him? No, King Thranduil demands sureties.”

“And what form does Thranduil suggest these sureties take?”

“The traditional form of an exchange of hostages: one of his kin for one of yours: your oldest daughter.”

Daeris stared imperiously at the emissary. “Some unspecified, distant kinsman for the flesh of my flesh, the daughter whom I carried for twelve moons, birthed in torment, loved more dearly than myself. What kin does Thranduil offer to compensate for so grievous a loss?”

“The cousin of a cousin of his late wife. But it is of no import, merely a courtesy to sweeten the pill. You have no choice but to agree. You have seen the size of the armed guard which accompanies me.”

“You call it just an armed guard? I would rather call it an army. But I would consult with my advisers in private before coming to a decision regarding your offer.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the emissary. He might hold the real power, but protocol demanded a pretence of deference on his part.

As soon as the Mirkwood elves had left, Eruanne flew across the room and sank to her knees, clasping her mother's hands.

“Naneth, you cannot do this to Firiel. Thranduil is known by reputation to be harsh, cruel, unyielding...”

Before her mother could answer, Firiel stepped up behind her sister and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Nay, Eruanne, my dearest one, my little Cúnë Yávë. Can you not see that we have no choice? This is the only way I can secure the safety of our people.”

Firiel's POV

As she had for every day of the last six months, Firiel sat at one end of the dining table, watching Thranduil at the other. How beautiful he was, with his high cheekbones and blond hair, and yet how hard, unyielding. The hall around him seemed to reflect his personality. High, graceful columns bending into tracery overhead, like the branches of a tree. But made of cold, unfeeling marble. The table was of polished rosewood which reflected the light from the candelabras. Both table and chairs were elegant, slender pieces of wood inlaid with marquetry of precious hardwoods. To one side was what had looked at first glance to be another lower side table, but actually turned out to be mounted elaborately onto delicate wheels so that the servants could wheel it into the room. It was piled with all sorts of delicacies, delicacies for which Firiel found she had no appetite.

Firiel hated this pretence of courtly civility. Thranduil raised his goblet and offered her a silent toast. His eyes were so cold, that white face with its beautiful perfection so frozen, so devoid of all warmth and feeling. Did he have feelings, she wondered. Tired of the game, she rose from the table and walked towards the door, pausing beside the low side table laid with its trays of delicious but unwanted morsels.

“If you will excuse me, my lord, the hour is late, and I would go to my rest if it pleases you,” she said.

Thranduil rose to his feet and walked towards her with his usual collected, graceful movements.

“And deprive myself of your company, my fair companion?” he replied, stopping but a few of hand spans from her.

Firiel felt anger flare hot within her. “Sir, you know as well as I that I am only here under duress. Why must we play out this charade of decorum every night?”

The corners of Thranduil's mouth rose in a smile, dangerous yet somehow arresting at the same time. He took half a step closer. “Are you suggesting that you would rather I abandoned this show of decorum? I could easily do so. So easily.” He reached past her, almost brushing her silk-clad waist with his hand. Firiel's breath hitched, whether with alarm or some other tension, she knew not. The Elven King plucked a cherry from the bowl behind her, and brought his hand half way back towards his mouth, pausing with his fingers level with her cheek.

He moved a fraction closer, his leg brushing her skirt. “To abandon decorum...” he whispered. She could feel his breath against her skin. “So tempting...” He moved a fraction closer, and Firiel shrank back, her legs bumping against the wood behind her. She felt herself bend backwards over the table, placing her hands behind her in an effort to keep her balance. It shifted slightly on its wheels, and she panicked that it might move, pitching her onto the floor. Breathless with tension, she felt her chest heave as if she had run some distance.

Thranduil moved a hairsbreadth from her. She could feel the heat of his gaze on the neckline of her dress, and felt very exposed. His eyes narrowed, and his fingers moved closer to her face. With slow deliberation he brushed the cherry slowly along the line of her jaw then up the soft skin of her cheek. She tried to turn her head away, but his other hand came up and cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“So very, very tempting.” His voice was husky. “But I do not take by plundering what is not willingly offered. I prefer to be begged...” He lifted the cherry towards his own lips which parted slightly. Firiel swallowed as she saw the tip of his tongue dart out and touch his lower lips. His gaze hooded, he moved his lips forward until they almost touched the sensitive tip of her ear. She felt as if her inner being was melting beneath this onslaught. “And believe me... you will beg.”

He drew back slightly, then with his long, elegant fingers, finally placed the cherry between those alluring lips. He took a further step back, then sketched the most ironic of bows.

“Until tomorrow evening, my lady Firiel.” His tall, commanding form turned away from her, and he swept from the room. Left alone, Firiel slumped against the wooden surface behind her. There could be no doubt that the Elven King meant to lay siege to her virtue. And even more worrying, that the biggest threat to her virtue was in fact she herself.


	8. Chapter 8

_  
Let's do it!  
Let's do it,  
Have a crazy night of love!  
I'll strip bare.  
I'll just wear  
Stilettos and an oven glove  
_

(Part 1 - the stilettos)

Eruanne's POV

__

Several days had passed since the siege was lifted. The dead had been buried, the fires in the outer circle quenched, the main thoroughfares cleared. The city was under martial law in an attempt to keep order and see that the meagre food supplies lasted. This meant it was quite hard to move freely round the city without seeming like a native who had some business in a given quarter. And a tall, graceful Elleth was not exactly likely to pass for a native, not without some disguise.

__

It took some time for Eruanne to come up with an idea. When she did, it gave her no small degree of amusement to realise how she could blend in with the crowds in the outer circles of the city despite her lustrous red locks. Most of the women of Gondor had dark hair, evidence of their Numenorean ancestry. Most but not all. The courtesans of the pleasure houses of the third circle dyed their hair with henna, the better to advertise their profession.

__

A surreptitious entry to one of these houses via an unlocked roof light during the late morning when its inhabitants were sleeping off the previous night's labours and before business started for the day furnished Eruanne with what she needed. In the burnt out ruin she had chosen for her hiding place, she tried on the diaphanous gown and teetering shoes . The latter in particular seemed to her to be the most ridiculous things she had ever encountered, but she had to look the part, and all the city's courtesans wore them so that their extra height drew the eyes of would be patrons. The outfit was completed with the addition of a flimsy cloak.

__

She added the final touches. She undid her warrior braids and shook out her hair so that it covered her ears. Then she applied lines of kohl round her eyes and a smear of the bright red paste the courtesans favoured to her lips. She slipped from the ruins and mingled with the throng in the street, heading up towards the Citadel, confident that she had not been noticed by anyone. But her confidence was misplaced.

__

Legolas' POV

__

Ever since she bested him on the battlefield, Legolas had been unable to get the image of the graceful yet deadly Elleth out of his mind. He had spent much of his spare time wondering how he might be able to encounter her again. He could not understand his thought processes: she showed every sign of hating him, yet he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Then, in the distance, through the crowds, he caught sight of her. She had her back to him, but there was something about her movements: he knew he had found her. 

__

He moved swiftly through the crowds, eventually getting close enough to see her face and figure properly. Stunned, he almost collided with a passer-by. Her hair cascaded freely over her shoulders, she was clad as a mortal woman... a mortal woman of dubious virtue. Legolas swallowed hard. Although the dress covered her, somehow it clung to every curve and left nothing to the imagination. Then he caught sight of her huge eyes, rimmed with dark kohl, making them look even bigger, and her lips, so red and tempting. His breath hitched. Then his lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. A moment of self-realisation hit him. He could no longer claim not to understand his thought processes: he now knew exactly why he was so drawn to her.

__

Keeping at a distance of four or five people behind her, Legolas started to follow her up the hill. He watched with amusement as more than one man tried to approach her. Mostly she dealt with them with a few well-chosen words, but one was rather more persistent. Legolas saw a sudden flash of steel beneath the gauzy cloak she wore. The man took several steps backwards, then took to his heels and almost sprinted down the street. Whatever his lady of the daggers was up to, she was certainly not touting for business. He gave a quiet laugh. On the one hand, given her hair colour, her choice of disguise was a brilliant one. On the other... well, a woman as beautiful as her was always going to attract a lot of attention, and to be both beautiful and to publicly declare oneself available... She was hardly going to pass through the streets unnoticed. 

__

Then the full genius of her disguise hit him. He remembered a favourite phrase of Aragorn's from his days as a Ranger of the North: hiding in plain sight. Her appearance was so stunning that it drove all other thoughts out of mens' minds. There was simply no space for them to harbour suspicions as to what she was up to. Their minds were entirely concentrated on her charms.

__

Eventually, to his surprise, they made their way as high as the fifth circle. He had to be careful here. The crowds had thinned out, and he had to drop right back and risk losing her at each corner so as not to be seen. But by the same token, his quarry now became even more noticeable. Few of her supposed trade made it this far into the city, and he kept expecting her to be challenged by a member of the City Guard. Fortunately for whatever mission drew her here, there were presumably far more pressing matters for the Guard to be concerned with in these dark days. 

__

Finally she reached her destination, and Legolas' brows drew together in a furrow of puzzlement. She disappeared into the Houses of the Honourable Guild of Archivists. Legolas found himself left cooling his heels on the steps nearby. She was gone for nigh on two hours. Eventually he caught sight of her emerging from a side door, in the company of a young man in the robes of the Guild. Reaching up with one elegant hand, she ran her fingers tantalisingly across the mortal's cheek. Legolas found his hand reaching for one of his daggers. She leant forward and whispered something to the mortal, who passed her a roll of parchment. She wrapped it in the flimsy fabric of her cloak, brushed her fingers to her crimson lips and blew the man a kiss before turning on heel and disappearing down the street.

__

Legolas felt his gut clench with an emotion which was totally new to him. He wanted to kill the man. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to kill her, too. He knew that he burned with the desire to know how much more than a gentle stroke on the cheek had been required to gain the parchment. At the same time, he felt as if he desperately did not want to know. He felt his jaw muscles clench, then made a conscious effort to pull himself together and follow her once more. Whatever she had done to acquire the parchment, the man had been used purely as a means to an end... and he wanted to find out what that end was.

__

Once she was safely a couple of streets away, she ducked into a deserted lane between high stone buildings. From a shadowy doorway some tens of paces behind her, he watched as she unfurled the parchment. Even from this distance, Legolas could make out the pattern on the parchment. It was a map. Abruptly, she released the corners of the parchment and let it spring back into a tight roll. She tucked it once more into her cloak, and started to head off – uphill once more, deeper into the ancient fastness of the Citadel at the centre of Minas Tirith.

__


	9. Chapter 9

_  
I'll strip bare.  
I'll just wear  
Stilettos and an oven glove  
Let's do it, let's do it tonight!  
_

(Part 2 - the oven glove)

Eruanne's POV

Eruanne moved steadily up through the city. The streets round the Houses of the Guild of Archivists were already not as busy as those lower in the city. And the higher the elf moved, the quieter things got. She found the narrow streets replaced by broad avenues which left her feeling exposed. On top of this, the nearly transparent fabrics which had seemed such a good distraction lower down in the outer circles now seemed like a beacon drawing the attention of the handful of passers by to her.

Worse still, she could not shake off the feeling that she was being followed. Yet each time she turned to look behind her, she saw no one, not so much as a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. How she wished that Naurwen could be here to watch her back. But there was no way that the cat could possibly blend in to the background in Minas Tirith. Focus... must focus. She forced herself to concentrate, recalling the lines of the map she had got from the archivist. Her brow wrinkled with distaste at the thought of the promises she had had to make to the young man, the memory of his clammy hands pawing at her as she mouthed “later, darling, later.” There was no way there was going to be a later. But as the flimsy silk shimmered in the breeze, caressing the smooth skin of her leg, she wondered what it would be like to have that effect on someone she actually desired. Unbidden, an image of blonde hair and broad archer's shoulders came to her mind's eye. By the Valar... Focus, focus.

Glancing to her left, she recognised one of the landmarks from the map. A temple to Manwe, with doors of brass and a high marble colonnade. And there, to the side of the building, was a narrow passage. She hastened down it, drawing her cloak about her. Yes... here at last was the entrance. A tiny wooden door beneath an ancient archway, carvings half crumbled with age. She could just make out the coiled dragon and gryphon supporting the door posts, with eagles taking flight across the span of the arch. Reaching down the front of her dress, she pulled out a heavy metal key on a chain which nestled between her breasts. She slid it into the keyhole in the wood, darkened by the passing centuries. The tarnished metal of the handle turned reluctantly beneath her grasp and the door creaked open.

She slipped into the darkness within and hastened down the passageway. To mortal eyes, the surroundings would have been too dark to find one's way. But Eruanne's keen Elven eyes allowed her to make her way, sure footed as Naurwen, down the uneven flagstones and the steep spiral flight of steps at the end. Down, down, deep beneath the temple she went. The ceiling was low in places and she had to stoop, brushing aside the spiders' webs which festooned the masonry above her head. Eventually she came to an elaborately wrought metal gate, work of some ancient craftsman who had modelled his work on sketches of the mallorns of the Golden Wood. The metalwork twined like tree branches, set with filigree leaves. Eruanne drew the gate open and stepped into the high-vaulted, echoing crypt beyond.

Making her way to the centre of the space, she paused before a brazier of cast metalwork. Though heaped with logs, it was thick with the grey dust of disuse. Eruanne reached down to her waist, where her gown was cinched in by a slender silver girdle, and opened the purse that rested against her hip. From inside, she drew out a tiny wooden box which she opened. Murmuring an incantation in a low voice, she scattered a dark crimson powder over the wood. Instantly the wood caught flame.

Unrolling the parchment, Eruanne carefully paced out from the brazier – thirteen steps towards the far end of the chamber, five to the left, which took her to one of the pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. Carefully, she ran her fingers up the stonework from the base of the column, counting the stones, until reaching high above her head, she pressed the carved mouldings just to its left. With a grating sound, the stone slid away to reveal a hidden compartment. She reached inside and drew out a polished box bound with bands of metal which gleamed dully in the light from the fire.

Legolas' POV

From the shadows to the side of the wrought metalwork of the gate, Legolas watched the red-haired Elleth. Her gown clung to her as she stretched up, and he found himself admiring the way long, slim outline of her legs was accentuated by the high heels she wore. He tried to tell himself he was merely amused by the sight of one of his own race dressed as a mortal woman of easy virtue, but the sudden dryness of his mouth suggested otherwise. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way the fabric of her gown clung to every curve of her body. What would it be like to hold that body, to pull it flush against his own, to explore those curves? Legolas bit his lip, giving his head a shake as if to clear his mind of the distracting images which filled his imagination with fire.

He saw her take a small wooden box from the hidden compartment, and a small parcel wrapped in cloth. What was it? She made her way back to the brazier, her every step elegant and poised. Like a dancer, she seemed to float as if clear of the stone flags beneath her feet. With a smooth, elegant movement, she sank to her knees. Adding more logs from the small pile beside the brazier, she banked up the fire, then opened the box. From it she took a long, cruelly fashioned knife. Then she unwrapped the cloth to reveal a gauntlet. In the glimmering red light of the fire it was hard to be sure of colours, but Legolas thought it was the turquoise scales characteristic of dragonhide from the worms of the northern ranges beyond his homeland. Resistant to any sort of heat. She donned the glove, the picked up the knife and thrust it into the flames, holding it there for a matter of minutes. When she withdrew it, the blade shone, revealing fiery letters written in Tengwar. 

Silently, he stepped from the shadows and came up behind her, seeking to read what was written there.

“My lady of the daggers, well met once more.” She leapt to her feet and whirled instantly, thrusting towards him on instinct with the dagger, but Legolas caught her by the wrist, the dragon scales of the gauntlet rough beneath his fingers. He continued smoothly, “I find it very curious... we meet on a battlefield, and you save my life, only to curse me. We fight side by side, and you best my score by one, only to run off towards a city under siege. And now I find you engaged on some stealthy errand, and no longer in..” Legolas paused, then raised one eyebrow and gave a half smile, “No longer in warrior's attire. I think you must forgive the fact that my curiosity is piqued.”

“My errand is no business of yours, Thranduillion,” she hissed.

“And there again, you have both the advantage of me, and have my curiosity piqued still further. You know my name, and yet I do not know yours. Nor do I know how you you come to know mine.” 

“Just because you are curious does not put me under any obligation to satisfy that curiosity.” Eruanne pulled at her wrist, very aware of his proximity. She had to get away. Yet mixed with the need to flee was desire of a quite different kind. Where the clammy hands of the archivist had left her skin crawling, somehow the cool touch of this Sindar set her skin aflame.

“Not so fast,” he said, voice dropping to a half-whisper. His sapphire eyes fixed on hers and he moved a fraction closer. He gazed at her intently. He couldn't help but notice the way her bosom rose and fell as she took shallow, rapid breaths. The low neckline of her dress exposed skin like alabaster, the smooth swell of her breasts drawing attention to the valley between them, the promise of beauty beyond his imagining hidden beneath the filmy fabric of her bodice.

“Let me go,” she said, but her voice trembled. Her words brought him out of his reverie, but only long enough to draw his eyes to her lips, parted slightly. For a brief moment, he felt her breath on his lips. He swallowed. He recalled past times, past events, things he had seen which sickened him. He was better than this. He forced his gaze back to her eyes, and saw them wide and dark. What was it he saw in them? Fear? Anger? Something more primal? He released her wrist and took half a step back.

“What is your business here, madam?” he demanded. His voice held a note of command. “I am sworn to fight the Enemy in the East and all his fell minions. I shall have your answer. On whose side do you fight?”

“I fight for none but myself and my family, Princeling. My allegiance is my own, given neither to the powers of darkness beyond the Ephel Duath nor to the allegiance of mortals on whose coat tails you ride.” Eruanne spat the words out in disgust.

“There are those in that allegiance of mortals whose lineage surpasses yours or mine by far, my beautiful and mysterious lady,” said Legolas. “Be not so quick to cast aspersions.”

“I care not for their lineage. What is it to me? All I desire is the freedom of my people, and I seek the key to that.” Her green eyes flashed with passion as she met his gaze. Legolas' breath hitched for a moment. There was anger, passion in that gaze... but something else. Like sparks in a summer storm something crackled between them.

“Freedom? Are you sure that is your only desire?” His voice sounded huskily, as though he was no longer in control.

“What more could I desire?” Eruanne answered, but from the way her voice dropped to a shaky whisper, Legolas knew that the sparks were not his imagination. He knew that she felt them too. Taking a swift step forward, he tangled his hand in the heavy red waves of hair that surrounded her face like a cloud. Suddenly the moment seemed out of his control. A force stronger than either of them was at work, pulling them together. He leant towards her, and felt the tension in her body, the movement as she reached to meet him half way. The touch of her lips against his sparked like lightning setting off a wildfire which raced through his body. With a soft moan of desire which sent his blood surging in his veins, she leaned into the kiss for an instant. 

Then just as abruptly, she broke the kiss. Stepping back, she delivered a resounding slap to his cheek. “Cursed dog of a Sindar. I will be beholden to none of your people.” And she turned and fled up the stairs, clutching the dagger in her hand, its fiery writing now faded to invisibility.

Legolas ran to follow her, only to find that her head start had been enough for her to disappear into the myriad of labyrinthine passages.


	10. Chapter 10

Legolas' POV

Legolas lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. As usual his mind seemed to keep circling back to the mysterious elleth. Her perfect form, clad in clinging silk. Her alabaster skin, her silken shoulders, one of which (when he drew close to her) had a tiny picture of a graceful, sinuous leopard ready to pounce, inked on her skin. An image which did not mar, but rather enhanced her beauty. Why was he so drawn towards a pair of almond shaped green eyes, wild dark red hair and the most tempting lips he'd ever seen? Lips he could still feel on his, lips that had caressed, then opened against his own. A kiss that had been as eager, as fiery as his own – until that slap.

Gimli stomped around their room in the citadel, gathering his meagre collection of possessions (the most important of which was the whetstone he used to keep his axe sharp) and stuffing them into a leather satchel. He was packing for the long march to the Black Gate. Every so often he threw a glare in Legolas' direction.

“Master Elf, I cannot believe you could be so dense. 'A diversion!' What possessed you to state the bleedin' obvious as though it was the key to all military strategy, past, present and future?”

“I was caught unawares. Aragorn clearly expected me to say something. So I said the first thing that came into my mind.”

“The first thing that came into your mind? If that was the best you could muster, your mind must be pretty damn empty at the moment. Anyhow, why not pay attention to what was going on? It's not as if it wasn't, let me see, the single most important discussion barring the one in Rivendell, that you will ever be privy to.”

“I lost my train of thought for a moment.”

“Lost his train of thought, the lad says! As if...” Gimli sounded sceptical to say the least. He continued to stomp, muttering, “Pipeweed, where the hell did I put my pipeweed?” under his breath.

“Now the loss of that foul smelling herb would be a blessing indeed,” said Legolas, naively believing the dangerous point of the conversation to have passed.

Never come between a dwarf and his nicotine addiction. Gimli stomped over to the side of the bed where Legolas was reclining and stood four-square in front of him. “Master Elf, you are insufferable to be around at the moment. And do you know what? I think it's not unconnected with that red-headed lass that stopped you being spitted through the guts at Helm's Deep. The same one that was with you on the Pelennor – you thought I didn't see that, didn't you... And the other night, coming back to our room with dabs of women's paint and powder on you! And, if I wasn't mistaken, the imprint of a hand on your cheek. Lost your train of thought, indeed. Gained an entirely different train of thought, I'd say.”

A rush of conflicting emotions surged through Legolas. Absolute fury with the dwarf for catching him out, embarrassment, and... something else... something he couldn't put a name to at first. Not until he registered the words he'd just uttered.

“The slap... I didn't force her. She was as keen as I – just for a moment. Then the moment was gone and out of the blue she slapped me.” Legolas realised the other emotion was shame. Shame that his friend (for unlikely as his relationship with Gimli was, he thought of the dwarf as his friend) would think he had deserved the slap for trying to take a female against her will.

Gimli took a step back till his legs met the other narrow bed in the room, then sat down heavily on the mattress. He looked at Legolas, expression inscrutable behind his ginger beard. “So, who is she then?”

Heaving a sigh, Legolas told Gimli most of the events of the previous week or two. He left out some points he thought were too embarrassing – his wash of jealousy on seeing the way she touched the whey-faced young archivist, for instance. Though there was something most disconcerting about the way the dwarf's eyes seemed to glint, the penetrating gaze he shot towards him every time the elf was economical with the truth. Legolas began to think Gimli was gifted with an uncanny ability to fill in the gaps in the narrative. The story done, the elf looked expectantly at the dwarf. The dwarf remained silent for some long moments while he mulled over the information. Eventually, he spoke. His words offered little comfort.

“You've got it bad, haven't you laddie?”

Legolas took refuge in a show of bravado. “She's pretty, that's all. It's months since I saw a pretty female of my own race, even an Avari. You expect me not to notice? We elves may be immortal, but we're still made of flesh and blood just like mortals. And I'm intrigued by the mystery of it all.”

Gimli gave a grunt of disbelief. “Yeah, yeah. A pretty face and a bit of mystery. That's all, sure it is.”

Eruanne's POV

The fiery writing on the dagger was etched into her mind.

Seek thou the paths amidst the rocks  
Which lead where water falls from high  
Above thy head; mid paths of owl and fox  
The Window on the West you'll spy.

Here was the clue to her quest to find the artefact of hidden power that would defeat Elohtolpa. But what did it mean? Some sort of riddle. The dagger had been made by her own kind, the Avari, but back in the ages before the Last Alliance. So the answer must lie in her own people's mythology.

The owl. The owl... sign of the huntress... And when did the huntress lead her wild maidens and their hounds in pursuit of their quarry? The full moon. But at this point, Eruanne hit a dead end. She couldn't think what the huntress and the moon could tell her. And, try as she might, it was hard to stay focussed when her body continually battled with her mind, memories of a pair of deep blue eyes gazing at her, the feel of a pair of lips upon hers, coaxing and demanding at the same time. The heat of his body, hard and muscled, pressed against her, heat that flooded through the thin silk she'd worn.

And her body not only betrayed her now, by continually interrupting her concentration with its demands. It had betrayed her yesterday in the crypt. For she had leaned into that kiss, she had pressed herself against that lithe, strong body. She had wanted the kiss, had wanted him to deepen it. It had taken every last drop of willpower to pull away when she did, to stop herself sinking into his arms, losing herself utterly in his embrace. Why? Why had she wanted this? After so many centuries, walking the plains and mountains of Middle Earth, content only to have Naurwen's companionship. Why did she suddenly yearn for a male body? And why did she yearn for the son of her sworn enemy?

When she pulled herself back, it had come flooding back to her. The devastation Thranduil had wrought on her sister's mind, her sister's heart, her sister's fea. The slap she'd delivered had been for the father. And nagging at the back of her mind was a sense of the unfairness of it. For the slap had landed on the son, who was surely blameless. No. NO! Not blameless, not Thranduillion. The blood of his father must run in the son's veins. Yes, he was tempting, tempting to the point of madness. But had that not been the mesmer Thranduil had cast upon her sister? She was not going to make that mistake with the son.

But again that little voice nagged at her. The son had been brave in battle, fighting beside his friends and comrades, even beside a dwarf. And all of Arda knew how much Thranduil hated dwarves. There was a difference between father and son, a difference which spoke in the son's favour. And he had met her challenge on the battlefield with good humour, and had acknowledge her win as good sport. How many ellyn would take being bested by an elleth with such good grace? And now, if the rumours running the length and breadth of the White City were anything to go by, he was setting off to near certain death with the Captains of the West in a desperate last throw of the die against the Shadow of Mordor.

She shook her head, as if to try to shake sense into herself. Why should it matter? He would surely die. Her only aim was to survive the chaos and see if she could carve out some modest measure of freedom for her people in the dark chaos that lay ahead, by overthrowing Elohtolpa. She would watch the Prince of Mirkwood ride to Ithilien and from there to the Black Gate, then she would pursue her quest.

Suddenly it hit her... the huntress of the moon. Ithilwen! The land of the moon – Ithilien. That was the first part of the riddle.

She brushed her hair back from her eyes. The elven prince's fate seemed twined with hers in a most mysterious way. It looked as if her path also took her to Ithilien – she would be dogging his footsteps for a while yet.


	11. Chapter 11

Flashback: Firiel's POV

Firiel sat curled up in a ball on the bottom of her bed. She bit her lower lip and angrily wiped a tear away from her eye with the back of her hand. How had she gotten into this state? She thought back to the moment two weeks earlier. The King had followed her into the high vaulted hall in the centre of his underground realm, where a subterranean waterfall cascaded from the shadowy roof way above their heads and plunged into depths hidden beyond even the keen sight of Elves.

She had watched as he made his way towards with a cat-like grace, poised, elegant yet at the same time irresistibly masculine. He stepped in close to her, so close she could feel the heat from his body. Her breath hitched. Her gaze was drawn as if by some magnetic force to his cerulean orbs. Somehow it felt as though every fibre of her being was aware of his physical presence, the play of muscles under the fine silk of his robes, the width of his shoulders. She looked helplessly upon the beauty of his face and it was as if something melted inside her. Those high cheekbones, the broad, noble brow, the temptingly full lips.

The temptingly full lips which moved ever closer until she felt his breath on her skin. Then his mouth found hers in a searing kiss which shattered her to the very core of her being. One hand cradled the hollow of her waist, warm, firm, possessive against the thin fabric of her dress. The other traced patterns along her collar bone, sending her dizzy with desire. With a yearning moan she parted her lips under the onslaught of his plundering mouth. Her need rose to meet his, and their tongues duelled. Every plane of his hard body pressed against her soft curves.

Then just as suddenly he pulled away from her. To her shock, she saw that for a fleeting moment the glamour he cloaked himself in had slipped, revealing the fearsome scars wrought by dragon fire centuries earlier. She shrank back in fright. He caught her look and his face took on a fearsome sneer.

“Not so beautiful now, am I? Do you still desire me, scarred as I really am? Or do you fear that the scars on the outside do but hide even more fearsome scars within?” His voice, normally so musical and seductive, was almost harsh, laced with an undercurrent of bitter laughter. Then with a shimmer, the glamour slipped back into place.

Without conscious volition, her hand rose towards his face. Her fingers touched his cheek. 

“Let me heal you... Wrap you in my care, in my...”

The King did not let her finish the sentence. “Fool of a girl. You really think that love conquers all, that you can make me better, make me whole again?” He reached out and cupped her chin, this time in a possessive, iron grip. “Would that the world were so simple.” With a swift movement, he dipped his head to hers, kissing her harshly, needily. Then just as swiftly, he turned heel and swept away.

Ooooo

With a start, Firiel realised she had brought her fingers up to her lips, tracing the skin his lips had seared with fiery kisses. But after he had swept away, she had seen nothing more of him for days, weeks. Then there was that fateful night when he had come to her chamber. She remembered hands, calloused with wielding a sword, tracing fire across her skin, his body hard, demanding, hers soft, yielding. She had felt herself melt beneath his touch, then catch flame, then soar like a bird of prey on wings of desire, desire he met and matched, then fed until it was all consuming.

Then nothing. After that one night of passion, she did not see him alone. In public he was distant, aloof, impersonal. More weeks, stretching out to nearly a month. Was she so easily forgotten? Had it meant nothing to him? Sometimes his hand brushed hers, and instantly her body remembered every last detail. But then he would give her a disdainful look and sweep away. Why did he tease her so? Her body yearned for him in ways she had never imagined before she met him, ways that made her cheeks blush a deep crimson. She woke most days to find her body aflame with the after effects of the pictures her mind had conjured in her sleep.

Heaving a sigh, she slid sideways till she lay on the bed, arms hugging her knees to her chest. She knew that she was slipping fast into unsafe territory. She was more than half way to loving him, to losing her soul.

Suddenly she heard the creak of hinges. Startled, she sat bolt upright as the heavy wooden door swung inwards. A slight figure flitted from the shadowy passageway beyond, putting a finger to lips only half glimpsed beneath the hood of the cloak that concealed all identifying features. Firiel began to speak, but stopped, breath held, as the hood fell back.

“My love,” said a familiar voice, and her sister flung herself to her knees at the side of her bed, grasping her hand. “I have come for you.”

“What? How?” Firiel was aware that she was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop herself. Eventually Eruanne calmed her. 

“Here, put on these leggings and this tunic. I have a warm coat with me. We have people to help us, people to lead us to a secret doorway. I have two horses tethered but a short distance away. We can follow the forest road east to the River Running, then make our way south, skirting the forest.”

Eruanne led Firiel into the passage. There a tall elleth, dressed as a soldier, waited in the shadows. To Firiel's surprise, the strange elleth also had red hair like her sister's.

“This way,” said the stranger, her voice low but musical. “There is a side door unlocked.”

“Are you sure?” asked Firiel.

“Yes. A friend has unlocked it for me. He disapproves of the King's behaviour.”

Firiel bit her lip. What would this friend think if he knew that she had been a willing participant, however cruel and heartless the King's treatment of her had been? Cruel, heartless... but not cold. Never cold. He burned with a passion to match her own. Which was why she harboured a secret deep within her soul: that part of her did not wish to leave.

Unaware of Firiel's inner turmoil, the redhead continued. “Besides which, he has a position such that it is easy for him to get keys to hidden places.” A tiny smile played around the elleth's lips. “Besides which, he will do almost anything to impress me.”

Ooooo

The journey south was slow and tortuous. Eruanne was shocked at how drawn and grief-stricken Firiel looked. She asked several times whether anything had been forced on her sister, but Firiel simply shook her head sadly. But it was clear that she was exhausted – tired and drained. And sickening for something. Some sort of ague which left her vomiting and weak. Eruanne racked her brains and her knowledge of herb lore to try to come up with some palliative for her sister's illness.

Things became dramatically worse about four weeks into their journey as they crossed the brown lands of Rhovanion. They were riding amid scrubland, bracken and gorse when suddenly a fox started from beneath a bush. Firiel's horse reared in fright, and Firiel, weak from her illness and grief, was thrown to the ground. Eruanne leapt from her own steed and ran to her sister's side. Having checked quickly, she established that Firiel probably had a couple of broken ribs, but none of her limbs was broken. She raised her shoulders gently, and cradled her in her arms, offering her the water skin she carried.

“Just small sips,” she cautioned. Then suddenly Firiel winced with a new pain, clutching her hands to her stomach. Then she struggled free from her sister's grasp and rolled onto her side, giving a soft moan. Eruanne's eyes widened with horror as she took in the growing dark red stain on the back of her sister's skirt.


	12. Chapter 12

_  
Don't starve a  
Girl of palaver.  
Dangle from the wardrobe in your Balaclava.  
Let's do it!  
Let's do it tonight!  
_

Legolas' POV

It was just curiosity. Nothing more. He kept telling himself that. But in between preparing to set out for the Black Gate with the host of the free peoples of the West, Legolas spent every spare moment haunting the lower circles of the Citadel hoping to catch a glimpse of the fiery haired elleth. 

It rapidly occurred to him that he too needed a disguise if he was to blend in with the crowds of mortals. At first he was at a loss. Then a visit with Gimli to see Merry in the Houses of Healing gave him an idea. As the two of them walked down the corridor to the room where Merry was recovering, they passed an open door. Through it Legolas glimpsed a couple of young soldiers come to bring comfort to their commanding officer. Legolas remembered Aragorn drawing the young, auburn-haired man back from a nightmarish nether-world where he lay, suffering from the Black Breath, Haradrim poison and burns. Faramir... that was right. Poor Boromir's younger brother, and captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.

And suddenly inspiration came to him. The Rangers! The perfect disguise. They went cloaked and hooded, and quite often masked. With a Ranger's cloak about him, its hood pulled over his face, he would blend into the crowds quite easily – just another soldier waiting to be sent back to the war. He slipped through the city to the place where he had first encountered her, and carried out a thorough reconnaissance. It did not take too long to discover the half-burnt house in which her weapons and meagre possessions were hidden. 

Legolas had spent many centuries engaged in warfare, and was well-versed in the ruses and feints of the enemy. So when his investigations uncovered a map of north Ithilien, he stood transfixed. Here was the very territory he and his comrades were to traverse on the way to the Black Gate. Was his lovely elleth with her flaming hair and skin like silk beneath his fingertips nothing but a spy? Suddenly the game had changed. No longer was he pursuing her because of his fascination with her beauty. There was now the very real possibility that she was an agent of Mordor. And he could not let her follow them. Yet at the same time it was possible she had her own independent reasons for wanting to go to Ithilien.

Legolas passed his hand over his eyes. Why did the tapestry the Valar wove throw them together over and over again? How had their fates become so entwined? And for good or for evil? And the most accursed twist of all: just as he was becoming aware of his attraction towards her, suddenly he had unearthed evidence that he could not trust her. He would have to resist her beautiful lips, the allure of her eyes, her rich, heavy hair that had felt so silken and seductive in his hands. There would be no more searing hot kisses. From now on he would have to treat her as a potential enemy. Heaving a sigh of frustration, he settled down to wait.

Eruanne's POV

Now that she knew the next stage of her journey would take her to Ithilien, Eruanne started making preparations. It seemed that she was doomed to be in the thick of the fight yet again. She wasn't sure quite what was going on, but it looked to her trained eye as if the armies of the peoples of the west were mustering, ready to march. And where else could they be marching, other than into enemy territory? The only other option would be to fortify their position in Minas Tirith, and the preparations seemed to indicate that they were going on the offensive, rather than preparing a long defence. So it seemed that she would have to play hide and seek with the armies of Gondor and Rohan, as well as avoiding the orcs and other evil spawn of the Dark One. 

It was dusk by the time Eruanne got back to the room she had made her own, within the burnt out building. She'd gathered all she thought she would need for the journey – waybread, a replenished supply of arrows, clean leggings, a linen shirt and coarse wool tunic. As soon as she entered the room she felt a pricking sensation between her shoulder blades. Affecting a casualness she did not feel, she laid her leather satchel on the bed. Then whirling round in an instant and drawing her daggers mid pirouette, she sought out the source of her disquiet.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she made out a figure. Whoever it was crouched atop the high cupboard in the furthest corner of the room. He must have made his way in through the clerestory window above. She realised he was dressed all too familiarly as one of the Dunedain of the South, the Rangers of Ithilien, the mortals who patrolled the woods where her people had come to take refuge. He wore a green cloak, green tunic and his face was masked. 

But as she stared, suddenly her suspicions were awakened. Something was not quite right. His fingers were long, shapely, the skin too smooth and flawless to be that of a mere mortal. And from behind the mask, instead of the grey eyes of Numenor she could see the glint of deepest blue sapphires.

“You!” she hissed.

“Aye, my beautiful lady of the daggers,” he said. Grasping the finely carved edge of the cupboard, he swung himself down with effortless grace. She stood transfixed as she watched the play of muscles beneath his clothes, his strong arms bearing his weight with ease. He dropped at her feet with the lightness of a gymnast before drawing himself up to his full height. With an effort, Eruanne pulled herself together. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, but she did so proudly and without flinching.

“I am not your anything,” she replied angrily.

“Of course not,” he said infuriatingly, inclining his head slightly to acknowledge her verbal hit. “You are entirely your own – no one could lay claim to you.” 

“What are you doing here?” Eruanne cut off the stream of flattery before it got any further.

“Why, curiosity of course. A beautiful maiden, as brave and skilled in arms as she is fair, caught up in some sort of mystery. Who would not wish to know more? You spoke of seeking freedom for your people. If I am to assume your people have not cast their lot in with the enemy, then your quest for freedom and mine are the same. And your saving my life on the battlefield, despite an implacable hatred for my lineage, betokens good will towards me. So, my... no, not mine, simply 'most beautiful lady', what quest are you engaged in?” 

“It is no business of yours. Ask no questions of me, and I will not pry into your affairs.”

“Ah, but... most beautiful lady, I have awaited your return for some time. Time enough to see the parchment you left upon the table. A map of the northern marches of Ithilien. You and I are destined to march in the same direction, at least to start with, though you get to sojourn in fair woods while I must continue the march to more desolate places. I offer you my company, and my arms, at your disposal for as much of the journey as we make in common.”

“So you pry among my possessions like a common thief.”

“Nay, lady, for I took naught.”

“Then like a miserable cur of a spy.”

Legolas' eyes flashed with anger, and without meaning to, Eruanne took a step backwards.

“So, the cat has claws,” he snapped. “You forget that I too have my quest, one of great danger, where the stakes are the highest this age has known and the price of failure unthinkable. Of course I looked in your possessions. I find you fascinating... but I would be a fool to trust you without evidence of your good faith. I admit, my lady – for in the absence of you doing me the courtesy of giving me your name, I shall call you 'my lady' – that my offer to bear you company was not made solely out of curiosity and admiration for your fair face. Now that I know you are destined to take the same path as my companions and me, I am afraid I must insist that you accompany me, and while in my company, tell me the details of your quest.”

Eruanne gave a sharp intake of breath. How dare this son of Thranduil demand that she go with him? Her words came out in an angry hiss. “You can insist all you want, but, as you pointed out, I am my own woman. I shall not accompany you.”

“Nay, you misunderstand,” said the Elf, his eyes glittering dangerously. “My suggestion was not a request. Either I must make sure of your intentions by keeping you close by me until I discover your true purpose, or I must hand you over to the authorities of this city so that you can be prevented from hindering our quest or passing word of it to the servants of darkness.”

Eruanne looked at the tall Sindar with a growing sense of desperation. It was clear that he meant every word – that he meant to force her to go with him or to have her imprisoned in Minas Tirith. For a brief while in the deep subterranean vaults where he had come upon her last, he had flirted with her – flirted and more, kissed her with a passion she could never have imagined. But now she could kick herself for being a damned fool, for succumbing so easily to broad shoulders and demanding lips. Beneath the flirtation, he had the steely unbending nature of his father. And he thought she was a spy, and false. Typical Sindar, to judge her simply for being an Avari. Well, she could bide her time. Her people had had plenty of practise at that.


	13. Chapter 13

Eruanne's POV

The Elleth sensed a familiar presence, one which had been bearing her company and soothing her soul for many miles now. Out of the corner of her eye, Eruanne saw a flicker of movement. Naurwen's spotted pelt blended perfectly with the ground cover beneath the forest canopy. For days Eruanne had marched in the company of tall men of Westernesse and Rohan, dark and blond haired, and of the Elf and his Dwarf companion. The Sindar barely spoke to her. But he was positively friendly to her compared to the two Noldor half-breeds, dark haired, stern faced twins. She searched her memory for their names... Elladan and Elrohir. They made it abundantly clear that they thought Legolas should simply kill her and have done with it.

The evening of the first day, she sat fletching her arrows. Just to the side, a couple of the northern Rangers kept watch over her. She thought she could probably take them both if she needed to, but what would that accomplish, other than setting her at daggers drawn with a whole army? Instead, she sat quietly, biding her time. 

Eruanne's keen hearing had made out a fierce argument between Thranduilion, the two Noldor, the Dwarf and the tall, commanding man she'd seen back on the battlements of Helm's Deep. He was clearly the leader of the expedition – all others deferred to him, even the young blond man who was the new king of Rohan, and the twins.

“Why in the name of all the Valar are we taking this spy with us?” The voice was that of one of the dark-haired Noldor.

“We should just execute her and have done with it.” This time his twin spoke.

“We have no proof,” said the man she recognised as leader.

“Besides...” This time the dwarf spoke. “Like the old saying has it: keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Do we have any idea what she might be up to,” the man asked.

“Other than a map of Ithilien, no. She has refused to answer any of my questions.” Legolas sounded cold yet calm, utterly without emotion.

“I wonder,” the man said. “Might someone else get something out of her? She obviously feels considerable antipathy towards you, for reasons I don't understand. But maybe another could get her to open up.”

“I'd get something out of her, with the help of this,” came the response from one of the twins. There was a metallic “tsching” of steel being drawn.

“Save your knife for orcs, Elladan, my brother,” said the man. _Ah,_ thought Eruanne, _Here was another puzzle. Why did the man call the half-breed his 'brother'?_

“Orcs, those in league with orcs – I see no need to make distinctions of such nicety as you do, Estel. But since you are intent on molly-coddling the spy, I shall go and seek clear-cut enemies to slay. Come, Elrohir, let us patrol the bounds of the camp and see if we can find orc blood to spill. And should our little spy venture out to try to make contact with our enemies beyond the camp, then if we catch her red-handed, we can slay her in with a clean conscience.” Eruanne heard the two Noldor rise to their feet, pick up their weapons and leave. 

She felt a chill run down her spine. There was no doubt that the two meant business. While the others – Legolas, the dwarf, Estel as she now knew him to be called – gave every indication of fighting with a view to defeating evil, the twins somehow gave off a cold ruthlessness. They seemed to delight in slaying their foes, leaving the elleth wondering where ruthlessness ended and wanton cruelty began. Then it suddenly came to her how much she had changed her attitude towards the son of Thranduil. That he was a cold, calculating killer on the battlefield when the choice was simple: kill or be killed – of that she had no doubt. But she did not think him capable of wanton cruelty. Then a second thought hit her: he had risen in her estimation without her even realising, at the same time as she had fallen irreparably in his. He now believed her to be a spy, a traitor, in service to the enemy. And she was surprised to find that his low opinion hurt.

Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the tall man. He sat down heavily on the ground, with none of the grace that came so easily to Elves, and brushed dark locks of hair back from his face. Eruanne looked at him. She found the stubble on his face strange – Elves did not have facial hair. The creases round his eyes and on his brows were disturbing reminders of his mortality. How old was he? Little more than an elfling by the reckoning of her race, yet a man in the prime of his maturity by the reckoning of mortals. 

“My lady, my companion tells me that you will divulge nothing of the reasons behind your possession of a map of the route of our expedition. Now, it has not escaped my notice that you and he are not on the best of terms. But perhaps if you could set your feud with him to one side, you could find it in you to tell me why you had such a map. For my instincts tell me you are no spy. Mysterious, with an agenda of your own, perhaps, but not one of the enemy.”

“I thank you for your trust, my lord. What a shame it is not shared by the two Noldorim you travel with.”

“Ah, the keen ears of elves... I should have remembered. Elladan has... has reasons not to be entirely rational when he suspects someone of being in league with our enemies. But, you still have not told me whether you will answer my questions.”

Eruanne decided that part of the truth might be enough to throw the man off the scent. “I am Avari – you know of us?”

“The unwilling, those who did not sail to the light, yes. I do know something of the history of the Eldar.” The man gave a wry smile, as if to say, mortal I may be, but not uneducated.

“I am one of the Eastern Avari, hailing originally from Amrûn Galen. We fled our homes with the coming of the Black Easterling, and settled in Ithilien. Why should I not have a map of the territory in which my people took refuge?” Eruanne looked the man straight in the eye. She found her gaze captured by grey orbs which seemed to hold a wisdom far beyond that of the brief span of years she knew the man to have been on this earth.

“You are older by many times the span of my life, and I do not doubt, have wandered Ithilien for many centuries. Your story, to me, makes it less likely, not more, that you would need a map. So, I repeat my question: why the map?”

“May not someone of good faith have their own fights, their own quest, without automatically being an enemy?” Eruanne took refuge in evasiveness.

“They may – but in times as dire as these, men who might otherwise take things on faith must needs be suspicious. If you will not divulge to us your purpose we must continue to keep you under guard.” With a shake of his head, the man rose to his feet. He gave a nod to the two watchful Rangers, and disappeared back into the night.

Legolas' POV

The next morning, as they walked through the grey dusk brought by the blanket of cloud above, Legolas sneaked sidelong looks at his captive. He had always thought lust to be one of the follies of mortals. Elves were meant to love but once, binding fea to fea for ever, their bodily union but an echo of their spiritual one. And yet he could not stop thinking of this elleth, even though he knew her to be a spy and beyond a doubt in league with their enemies. Surely, then, this must be what mortals meant by lust – to be drawn physically to one whose character one despised, drawn inexorably despite seeing their failings all too clearly. And yet... and yet... Surely she was not entirely flawed? She was brave: that was beyond doubt. And sometimes, in her beautiful face, he caught a glimpse of a haunting sadness which surely spoke of the ability to feel deep compassion. 

But surely this was just his overactive imagination, seeking justification for the less wholesome thoughts which took his imagination by storm. Alone at night in his bed roll, he found pictures rising up in his mind. The way her diaphanous dress had clung to her figure as she emerged from the guild of archivists. The moist gleam of her red lips as she drew her head back from kissing that wretched scholar. Much as Legolas knew she had been using him, he still longed to take the man's place. The feel of those lips, soft and yielding beneath his own. And, just briefly, the feel of the curves of her body, lithe and promising, beneath his hands. Shaking his head, he thrust those thoughts to the back of his mind.

On the fifth day of marching they finally came to the edge of a great natural amphitheatre of rock, a space hemmed in by vertical cliffs shading into steep black scree slopes. And there, in the distance, between two ridges of the mountains was a narrow defile, barred by impregnable black stone ramparts, in the centre of which was a pair of enormous gates.

“Lo, we have come at last to the Black Gates.” Gimli's voice came from Legolas' left side. The dwarf sounded awed.

Aragorn sent his heralds out to proclaim the coming of the King, the Heir of Elendil, and as the note of the trumpets died away on the breeze, Legolas was seized with a sudden dread as the clear sound was answered by a hideous braying cacophany from the ramparts. Then with a tremendous noise, the gates opened, and a fearsome horseman rode out, flanked by several troops of orcs.


	14. Chapter 14

Eruanne's POV.

Eruanne stood to one side of Legolas and Gimli. She held her breath as the fearsome rider on the black horse approached. Aragorn and the wizard, Mithrandir, rode forward to parlay. Eruanne listened in confusion as the dark cloaked figure taunted them: something about spies who had been captured. She heard a sharp intake of breath from the elf, and caught a fleeting expression, one which would have been missed by mortals, one which spoke of the loss of the last grains of hope. What was so momentous about these spies? What had their mission been? How had so much come to hang on it, if Legolas' reaction was anything to go by?

The parlay was short and angry, culminating in the wizard snatching a bundle from the dark rider, proclaiming, “These we will keep in memory of our friends.”

From there it seemed as though the world moved at frantic speed. The rider and his entourage made their way back to the gates. Battle lines were drawn up, then, with hardly any warning, the huge gates swung open to their full extent and horde upon horde of orcs, trolls, all the foul creatures of Mordor spewed forth. 

With a great yell, the hosts of the West advanced, holding their line, tight discipline prevailing. But Eruanne could feel their fear. Morgoth's teeth! She could smell their fear – mortals radiated a pungent scent like a startled polecat. It didn't help that her stomach was churning too. The odds were simply overwhelming. 

But then the two advancing armies met, and all room for fear was gone, swept away in the moment, as Eruanne unsheathed her blades and started the deadly business of kill or be killed. Once more, she found herself fighting back-to-back with the tall blond Sindar, their knives flashing as they danced their dance of death. Thrust, parry, slice – with ruthless efficiency they cut a swathe through the oncoming orcs. Some part of Eruanne's mind registered the way they seemed to anticipate each other's moves almost as if they could read each other's minds – never before had she felt this connection to anyone other than Naurwen.

Another hideous body pitching at her feet, its black life-blood gushing onto the mud, she risked a sideways glance at the elf. His vivid sapphire eyes met her emerald ones, and his lips curled back from sparkling white teeth in a feral smile. He felt it too, felt the connection, the sense of fighting as one. And he too revelled in it. Valar, he was magnificent. She felt a strange rush of heat in her blood as she looked at his perfectly balanced form, broad shoulders, narrow hips, well muscled legs. And he knew that she watched him, like a cat about to pounce on its prey. He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow in unspoken challenge, his pupils widening with an answering desire. So this was why they called it 'blood lust.'

Then... “Look out.” His cry was harsh, and she ducked the incoming blow just in time. One of his daggers flew past her cheek, embedding itself in the chest of the orc who had been about to slice her head off. With a gurgle of blood the corpse crumpled to the ground.

Focus, focus... Eruanne pulled herself together, and concentrated on the task in hand. The battle swirled around them, and slowly, inexorably, they were driven apart. Then, just as she skewered another of the foul host, a wave of movement in the distance caught her eye. From one of the high hillsides, a second wave of the enemy came bearing down. Flying low and fast just ahead of the advancing line came one of the fell beasts with its rider, a narrow band of gold glinting on an invisible brow. 

With a clench of her guts, elvish eyes taking in the details no mere mortal could have made out, Eruanne recognised the twisted serpent design on the band of gold. Khamûl! The Black Easterling himself. Now that his king lay dead upon the Pelennor, the leader of the remaining Nazgûl.

And there, at the front of the Armies of the West, facing down the Nazgûl, was a small, sturdy figure – the dwarf Gimli. She watched as the fell beast and its rider bore down upon him. Alone, he was no match. She glanced behind her: Thranduillion had been carried away in the crowds, nigh on to the other side of the battlefield. Turning back to the dwarf, she broke into a run. Sensing her mistress's need, Naurwen paused, tearing her teeth from the throat of the Southron between her great paws. With a snarl, she leapt and twisted, weaving her way through the foes to guard her mistress.

Legolas' POV

The orc arrows came thick and fast, and Legolas worked tirelessly to pick off their archers. They might be loosing arrows by the hundred, but every single one of his hit its mark with a deadly accuracy. Suddenly, his concentration was disrupted by a cry from Elladan.

“Ware, Legolas. Look to your dwarf.” Legolas turned and saw the scene unfolding at the other side of the rocky amphitheatre. The Nazgûl was almost upon his friend, wielding a mighty sword of black metal. Gimli stood fore square, axe aloft. For a moment, Legolas thought he was alone. But then he saw a familiar lithe, graceful figure sprinting across the rubble towards the dwarf, and cutting in from the other side, the spotted cat-like beast he had caught glimpses of so many times. Then he too broke into a run, seeking to come to his dearest friend's aid.

With a sweep of the fearsome blade, Khamûl struck out at Gimli. Metal met metal – dark enchanted black steel met steel forged by the finest dwarven craft. Gimli was forced onto the back foot. Another stroke! This time, black steel met the dwarf's helm. Reeling from the blow, Gimli stumbled, tumbling to the ground. The Nazgûl raised the cruel blade, ready to drive the point downwards into the dwarf's throat. 

But before he could do so, his mount lurched beneath him as the leopard brought her fangs into the hide of its neck. At that instant, Eruanne threw herself onto one of its wings, then springing to her feet, leapt for the nape of its neck, bringing her knife down into Khamul's arm. The Nazgul gave an unearthly shriek and brought its sword round to bear on Eruanne. She parried the stroke, but only just. With a wrenching movement, she managed to thrust her knife beneath the Black Easterling's guard, feeling its point connect with invisible flesh. The Easterling shrieked once more, then with two flaps of its powerful wings, it dove into the air, claws rending the leopard from its neck and catapulting it across the rubble. Eruanne, stunned by the wave of freezing cold pain which shot up her arm the instant her knife connected with the Nazgul, gave a low scream and tumbled to the ground, landing in a crumpled heap beside Gimli. 

Legolas bounded over the fallen body of a cave troll and landed in a crouching position beside the dwarf. With a groan, Gimli tried to sit up, clutching a hand to his brow.

“The lassie,” he said, voice cracking with the effort of speaking. “She saved me...” He reached out his sturdy, calloused hand and swept red hair back from her brow. Her long lashes lay unflinching across her alabaster cheek. “Is she.... is she dead?” His voice now was only a whisper.

Legolas dropped to his knees beside the fallen elleth, taking her hand tenderly in his. Suddenly there was a clatter of stones as the half elven twins skidded to a halt amidst the rubble. Legolas looked up, his blue eyes dark with passion, locking his gaze with Elladan's steel-grey eyes.

“Do you still think she's a spy?”


	15. Chapter 15

Eruanne's POV

Her head was splitting. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. She seemed to be lying on a low bed, or perhaps a soft heap of animal skins, in a tent. Her arm ached terribly, and seemed to be strangely numb. With a start it came rushing back to her. That stabbing chill which ran from her fingertips up the veins in her arms when she stabbed the Black Easterling. Falling towards the ground. Watching helplessly as Naurwen, pitched through the air, landed amid the rubble. Then darkness as she finally fell to earth.

Naurwen! Cautiously, she probed her bond... Nothing. A bleak sadness overcame her, and she could not stifle a sob. Shutting her eyes again, she let the tears run down her cheeks. Then she heard the sound of steps approaching the bed, and turned her head to see one of the last people she expected, or wished to see. One of those blasted half-breed twins.

Aloof and haughty, he lifted her hand and held her wrist as he checked her heartbeat. On seeing her expression, he said, “I am trained in the arts of healing – trained by my father who is one of the finest healers in all of Arda.” His cool hand passed across her brow, then he said, “You seem well enough, Avari.” Then with a sweep of his cloak he left her presence, sweeping aside a curtain which she now realised to be the opening of a tent.

She slumped back against the pillows, head still splitting, heart aching at the emptiness of no longer feeling Naurwen. Dry eyed now, as if she had shed all her tears, she turned her head towards the thick fabric behind the bed, and shut her eyes. She wasn't sure how long she lay there, but her misery was interrupted by the sound of the tent flap rustling behind her. She couldn't bring herself to look round.

A deep, rasping, bass burr cut through the silence. “Ahem, lassie, Ah've... Well, Ah've cam tae say thank ye.” 

Reluctantly, Eruanne rolled over. Her eyes mrt the face of the dwarf she had saved on the battlefield. To her surprise, the brown eyes set amid deep wrinkles surveyed her with an open, kindly expression.

"Why so sad, lassie? Ye survived the battle, I survived the battle, even yon snotty nosed elven princeling survived it. And we won." 

To her even greater surprise, Eruanne found herself trusting this squat, stocky creature with his strange, thick accent. Why? Trust did not come easily to her. And there was a long history between her folk and the people of Aule. No love lost there. Yet something about the dwarf before her made her able to open up, to let a little of herself show, however cautiously.

"It's Naurwen..."

The dwarf looked puzzled. 

"I can't feel her. Our bond... it's gone."

"Naurwen? Is that the muckle great cat?"

Eruanne nodded mutely. She couldn't stop a tear rolling down her cheek. Again the dwarf surprised her by offering a handkerchief, before quickly continuing.

"Och, lassie, didnae ony one tell ye? The beastie's fine. It was sair hurt, but Aragorn patched it up. But it wudnae rest - kept tearing at its stitches. And it was fretting looking for ye. So Aragorn give it a sleeping draught to knock it out."

Eruanne was almost too stunned to take in this information. Then slowly her face relaxed into a smile. She felt so happy she could almost have hugged the dwarf – almost, but not quite.

“Oh, thank you, master dwarf. You have cheered me beyond what you can know. I shall sleep easy now.”

“Och,” said Gimli, blushing slightly, “It's nae bother. Glad tae have brocht ye guid news. And thank ye again. Sleep weel.” With a deep bow, he retreated out through the flap of the tent. Relaxed at last, Eruanne slipped into a deep sleep.

The elleth slept through the night and into the next morning. When at long last she awoke, she felt refreshed, all pain washed from her body by her long rest and the uncanny ability of elves to heal their bodies. She decided to go and look for Naurwen, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Someone had left a silver ewer of water and a wash bowl on a stand near the bed, and she splashed her face before looking for something more substantial than her nightgown to wear. It seemed that someone had left a dress out ready for her. Then her cheeks flamed as she realised that they must have found it in her pack, and that there was only one dress she had in her possession – the flimsy, diaphanous dress she had worn in Minas Tirith when she had disguised herself as a courtesan.

Hastily, she looked around for other clothes, but could find none. What had happened? Had the healers had to cut her battle clothes from her to tend to her injuries. Reluctantly, she had to acknowledge the fact that it was either this dress or her nightgown. She pulled it over her head, lacing the bodice. As she did so, she tried fruitlessly to pull the neckline up higher across her alabaster bosom – but to no avail; the dress remained as revealing as ever. Fortunately the one garment which still seemed to be at hand was her dark cloak, and she cast this about her shoulders, pulling it tight across her breast.

Walking swiftly across the camp, it didn't take her long to find Naurwen. The snow leopard had been confined to a paddock, which she clearly stayed in out of deference to her healers and out of a need to stay close to where she sensed her mistress to be; she could easily have leapt over the fence if she had wished. Eruanne petted her and fussed over her for some time, then reluctantly took her leave. The leopard was still not completely recovered and needed rest. 

As the elleth made her way back to her own tent, she caught sight of a trio of the strange halfling creatures sitting in the sun in front of their tent. She wasn't sure what drew her to them, but, skirting round the side of the canvas dwelling, she quietly crept within earshot.

Two of them lounged on the ground, passing a wineskin to and fro. One had curly strawberry blond hair and a cheeky expression, the other one darker auburn curls and dimples. If they weren't so small, they would have been quite handsome, she supposed. The third – a stolid, round-faced creature – sat cross legged peeling potatoes into a large pot.

“You don't have to do that, you know, Sam. We're all war heroes now. Other people do the hard work and prepare feasts for us,” the dark-haired one said, with a grin.

“That's as may be, master Merry. But it keeps me occupied. Idle hands leads to trouble, that's what my old gaffer allus used to say.”

“So,” said the blond one, “You'd got as far as telling us about making your way through Ithilien – you and cousin Frodo had just been ambushed by masked men in green...”

“Ah, master Pippin, they turned out to be on our side. Rangers, they were. Guarding the borders of Gondor against orcs, and bad men, and oliphaunts, if you can believe it! Now that was a sight to see – ground shook like thunder, it did. But then they chased it all the way down to the river and it was washed away. Next they took us prisoner and took us to their leader. He only turned out to be your captain Faramir as you were telling me about earlier.”

“And a very good man he is too – what did he make of you when you told him your story?”

“Well, we told him a bit out there in the open, but obviously not too much – never know who might be listening out in the wilds. So then he took us to his secret hideout... this system of caves high above a rock pool with a waterfall. It was really beautiful. The hidden pool they called it. And when you got into the caves, the opening was hidden behind the waterfall. It faced west and the evening sun caught it, and it was just the loveliest thing you can imagine – all reds and golds sparkling. The “window on the west” they called it.”

Eruanne froze. Suddenly the fiery words on the dagger came back to her:

_  
Seek thou the paths amidst the rocks  
Which lead where water falls from high  
Above thy head; mid paths of owl and fox  
The Window on the West you'll spy.  
_

At last – a clue. The halflings knew where the window on the west was to be found. She listened intently, holding her breath with excitement.

“That sounds worth a visit – maybe we should go on a trip there while we're out this direction,” the hobbit called Merry said.

“Ah, well, you see, there I can't help you, for we were blindfolded on the way there. But... that ruined keep we passed back the way. That's ranger territory. There might be a map in there that would show you where it was.”

“Is it safe?” Pippin asked. “I mean, there are still orcs around here – they haven't all been rounded up.”

“Pretty safe, I think,” said Sam. “I saw Legolas and one of Elrond's sons heading over that way to check things out and make sure the place was secure.”

Eruanne cursed softly under her breath – two of her least favourite people, standing between her and access to a map which might take her to the mysterious window on the west.


	16. Chapter 16

_  
To quote Milton  
Eat stilton  
Roll in gay abandon on the tufted Wilton  
Let's do it,  
Let's do it tonight!  
_

(With apologies to Alan Bates and Oliver Reed.)

Eruanne's POV

Eruanne waited another half hour or so till dusk so that she could slip from the camp unnoticed. Following the path she'd heard the hobbits describe, she made her way through the wood, slipping almost invisibly from tree to tree in the way that only an Elf could. How she wished Naurwen was by her side, but the leopard still slept. She felt signs that the cat was regaining her strength, though. Where before there had been nothing, now she caught threads of Naurwen's feline dreams as the leopard's mind returned to normal.

Eventually, she came within sight of the ruined guard tower. It was a plain, functional building, square in plan, with a sturdy wooden door and narrow arrow slits. Clearly, if Legolas and one of the twins were already there, she couldn't go in the door. Shading her eyes against the red rays of the setting sun, Eruanne scouted out the possibilities. Finally she settled upon a tall pine tree, its high spreading branches with their needles almost black against the gold and pink dusky sky. One branch overhung the battlements. She ran silently across the forest floor, then, with fluid grace, climbed lithely up the trunk and ran, perfectly balanced, across the branch. As she neared the end, it bent slightly under her. Springing down lightly she vaulted over the crenellations and landed on the stone pathway round the inner side of the battlements. Quickly she ran to the nearest corner tower, where she found a narrow doorway leading to a steep spiral staircase. Feeling her way down the stone wall in the dark, she eventually emerged on what turned out to be a balcony some fifteen feet up, running round the whole of a square room – a hall – which filled the base of the tower. And there, in the hall, obviously quite at home, were the two elves. And beyond them, at the far side of the hall, stood a large plan chest. If there were any maps to be had, they would be stored there. But her path to them was blocked.

Eruanne pressed back into the curtains on the balcony, concealing herself within the shadows. She could see down into the hall below, with its pillars round the edge soaring to pointed arches. The son of Elrond offered Legolas a goblet of wine before pouring one for himself. The rich scent drifted upwards: finest Dorwinion. They certainly weren't stinting themselves. The two elves made themselves comfortable before the flickering fire, Elladan settling into a comfortable leather armchair, the blond archer reclining on a thick rug at his feet.

“So, she turned out not to be a spy.” The dark haired elf broke the silence, giving Legolas a half smile as he spoke.

“No. After her performance before the Black Gates, I don't think there is any doubt where her loyalties lie.”

“Still, your dwarf must be pretty pissed off at having to be rescued by an elf, and a female to boot.”

“Aye, he is that. It is most amusing.” 

There was a long silence while the two took mouthfuls of wine and stared in contemplation into the flames. Elladan poured himself a second goblet, then passed the wineskin to the Sindar.

“So, what now? Will you continue to explore the world with your dwarven friend? Perhaps return to your father's realm? Or seek new excitements? Or perhaps seek out the right person to take the edge off the loneliness of existence?”

“You feel it too, then?”

“Not so acutely. After all I have my brother. But you, my friend... It bothers you, I think.”

“Valar, yes.” Legolas' words were more of a gentle exhalation than speech.

“So, for the right elleth?” In response to this, Legolas grunted and threw the now empty wineskin back at Elladan. The dark haired elf quirked a black eyebrow. “Or if you're bored, just hit something instead.”

“There's a lot to be said for that. When one is frustrated. Or wrestling.”

“You are acquainted with the Noldorim art of wrestling?” Elladan sounded surprised.

“A little.” The blond looked up, meeting the darker-haired elf's look of challenge, blue orbs locking with grey. He quirked a shapely eyebrow. “Shall we?”

Elladan nodded, and Legolas leapt to his feet in a smooth, fluid movement.

“We are perhaps a little overdressed...”

Eruanne watched from her hiding place as the two elves stripped off tunics and breeches. Then they readied themselves, balancing on the balls of their feet, facing one another. Elladan reached out and made a couple of tentative jabs towards Legolas' chest, hand slapping onto skin for a fleeting instant before withdrawing before his wrist could be grasped. Then Legolas made a move, reaching out to grapple the other and try to hook his leg behind him.

Eruanne's breath hitched. They were magnificent. As they wheeled round, each trying to get the upper hand, she couldn't help but take in the sculpted planes of Legolas' back, the way it tapered to his narrow waist, the play of his muscles beneath his skin as he struggled to best the other elf, the long, sinuous lines of his strong hamstrings. His long silver hair mingled with the dark strands of his comrade, flowing over their shoulders. A sheen of sweat glistened over their bodies, biceps rippling as they grasped one another, skin turning golden in the glimmering firelight.

Eruanne's emotions whirled in a turmoil. Her traitorous mind whispered forbidden words to her as she drank in every inch of the elf's form. “Hacha bain... Gweth minas...”

Back and forth the two moved, seeking the upper hand. First one would seem to be pushing the other hard, then the situation would reverse. They were evenly matched in height, strength and skill, almost perfect mirrors of one another, one dark, one light. Eventually, Legolas managed to hook his leg behind Elladan's knee and pitch the dark-haired elf to the floor, pinning his shoulders in place. As they struggled, Eruanne caught sight of Legolas' face, expression caught in the moment, lips parted, eyes half closed as he focused intently on the physical effort of it. For some reason she couldn't understand, something about the way he looked excited her. She wanted to be where Elladan was, pinned beneath him. She wanted that expression on his face to be for her.

Then, suddenly, the tension went out of the pair of them.

“I yield,” the Noldor gasped.

Legolas gave a low laugh. “Was it too much for you?”

“No, no one ought to strive,” Elladan said, still breathless from the effort. He added, almost as an afterthought, “Wrestling makes one physically close.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.” The dark haired elf paused, as if weighing up whether to say more. “We are mentally close, so we should be physically close. It's more complete. You know how the old Numenorean knights used to swear blood brotherhood?”

“Yes,” Legolas answered. He gave a wry smile, and trailed his finger over the gleaming skin of Elladan's bicep. “Make wounds in each other's arms and run blood in each other's cuts.” Eruanne felt her brows draw together in a frown. She didn't understand where this conversation was going, but she knew that for some reason it made her uncomfortable. That bloody Noldor was not allowed to come close to the Mirkwood elf, not in that way... But what way was it?

Elladan spoke once more. “Yes, and swear to be true to each other of one blood all their lives. Well that's what we ought to do. I mean, no wounds, that's obsolete. But we ought to swear to love each other, you and I. Implicitly... perfectly... finally without any possibility of ever going back on it. Shall we swear to each other one day?”

The dark-haired elf's eyes glistened. There seemed to be a feverish excitement, a tension, an undercurrent that Eruanne could not place. The son of Elrond looked... vulnerable. Almost hopeful. But scared too. Eruanne waited, suspended, unable to breath while she waited for Legolas' response.

Legolas looked away from his friend, breaking the tension, rolling slightly to one side breaking his contact with the other, before saying, “Wait till I understand it better.”

She stifled a sigh of relief, though still she did not really understand why she felt the way she did. The two elves lay there on the rug for some minutes, getting their breath back. Eventually, Elladan spoke.

"I should go. My brother will be wondering where I am. Will you come with me?" The dark haired ellon rolled over and sprang gracefully to his feet.

"Nay, friend," replied Legolas. "I shall bide here a while and finish this excellent wine."

Elladan swiftly pulled his clothes back on, then with elegant movements reminiscent of a panther, made his way to the door. He lingered for a moment on the threshold, looking back at Legolas, before turning to go. As the heavy oaken door swung closed behind him, Legolas got to his feet, slipped his breeches back on and went to the armchair. He poured himself a generous measure of the tawny liquid then sprawled languidly in the chair, long legs stretched before him.

"You can come out now," he said, his voice low, casual in tones. He didn't bother to look towards Eruanne's hiding place.

With silent grace she vaulted over the balustrade, dropping effortlessly onto the soft silken rug below, landing with a controlled elegance.

"So, madam, did you enjoy the show?" There was a husky undertone to his voice that made her pulse race. But she wasn't to be swayed so easily. Rather than answer she chose to ask her own question.

"You knew I was there all along?"

In answer, Legolas merely inclined his head a fraction, raising his goblet as if to toast her. His blue eyes, glittering in the firelight, locked with hers.

"And the peredhel?" Eruanne couldn't help the disdainful note in her voice.

"I think not. He had partaken of rather more wine than I. Talking of which, how rude of me not to offer you some." Rising to his feet, he raised the crystal decanter. "Would you care to join me? It is Dorwinion, a rather fine vintage." He poured some into a goblet and moved towards her. She was aware of a sudden tension in her body; as if each fibre of her being was suddenly acutely aware of his masculine grace as he came nearer. He passed her the goblet, fingers brushing hers just for a moment, and she was hit by the crackle of energy which seemed to surge between them, like the tiny spark which threatens to start a firestorm.

“So, my lady of the daggers, it seems I owe you an apology. I concede now that you are not a spy. But I think you still owe me an explanation. You have not told me of your quest in Ithilien, nor of the reason which brings you here. Unless I am to accept the obvious reason, that you find watching two near-naked males writhing upon the ground to be...” His sapphire eyes locked onto hers, like a falcon spying on its prey. With the subtlest of movements he leaned in towards her and whispered, “Arousing...”

In confusion, Eruanne dropped her eyes, her breathing quickening. But this proved to be a mistake, for now she found herself mere inches from the glistening, hard planes of his muscled chest. Her hand moved of its own volition, and she only stopped just in time. She stood, frozen, fingertips just short of his skin, so close she could feel the heat of his body radiating. 

He gave a low, husky laugh, and she realised that she might as well not have stopped, for her intention was clear, beyond any possibility of denial.


	17. Chapter 17

**Legolas' POV**

Elbereth, he could see that she wanted him. She wouldn't meet his gaze, but her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled beneath lowered lashes. She was wearing the diaphanous dress she'd been wearing that day back in Minas Tirith, and the neck-line was tantalisingly low. He could see her breasts rise and fall as she took shallow, rapid breaths.

And when her hand reached out towards him, by all the Valar, he knew she was his for the taking. Then her fingers stopped just a hairsbreadth from his skin, and it was as if the lightning from a summer storm crackled across the gap, and all of a sudden he no longer knew if it was she was his, or he was hers.

His hands seemed to move of their own volition, spanning the gap between them, coming to rest on the curve of her hips. She gave a faint moan, and he felt her body sway beneath his grasp, but still she didn't look up at him. He fanned his fingers out, reaching round her slender waist, and pulled her closer towards him, leaving just the tiniest slither of tantalising space between their bodies.

“You haven't told me whether my guess was right,” he whispered, his voice sounding rough and hoarse to his own ears.

“Which guess?” Her answer came in a ragged gasp.

“Whether you found the sight of us wrestling to be arousing.” His breath was hot against her neck now, and she curved her head slightly away as if the sensation was too much for her. She was damned if she would tell him, but her skin felt on fire where it felt the heat of him close to her.

“Arousing?” She struggled to keep her tone light. Arousing: that was an understatement. But she wouldn't let him have that satisfaction. “It would take more than that. You flatter yourself...”

“Do I?” His vivid blue eyes glanced downward towards her bosom, towards the outline of her body, the flimsy fabric doing nothing to hide the evidence of her need for him. His hands ghosted up her sides, thumbs skimming the swell of her breasts as they slid over the smooth silk. He felt her tremble beneath his fingers, then felt her pull back. Her head half turned from him, a curtain of glorious red hair falling across her cheek.

“You don't get away that easily,” he murmured against the soft curls, his voice suddenly filled with a soft promise. He let his hand drift down the side of her neck. “Your skin... so smooth – like alabaster – but warm, so warm.” Then his fingers traced her collar bone. Eruanne felt a bolt of pleasure jolt through her whole being, felt herself arch against his hard body. 

“You like that, don't you? You can't deny it, it's in your every movement. Do you know what the feel of you, pressing against me, what it does to me?” His voice ached with pure need, and suddenly Eruanne felt as though her body was made of delicate glass, ready to shatter into tiny shards. She didn't know how she could withstand the onslaught – his fingers stroking across her skin, his body hard and muscular against hers, the sound of his breath, husky and filled with desire, the feel of his breath ghosting across her skin. His fingers traced along the outline of the top of her bodice, slipping across the exposed skin. She could feel herself shaking with want as she struggled not to press forward into his warm palms.

His fingers traced the fabric, up over her collar bones and slowly, oh, so slowly, he began to ease the soft silk over her skin exposing his shoulders. She felt his breath whisper over her body before his lips touched her, then with a feather-light touch he kissed her left shoulder. She couldn't help herself: she leant into his embrace, finally letting her own hands touch him, running them over the smooth, hard, muscular planes of his back, revelling in the warmth of his skin. He peppered tiny kisses up the column of her neck, pausing to nip at the underside of her jaw, and without conscious thought she threw her head back to allow him access, deep red curls cascading down her back. From somewhere far, far away she heard a groan – his? Hers? She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure whether it mattered. That deep, masculine, feral growl of sheer need... that was definitely his.

How could her need for him carry her to the brink of madness like this? She needed him, needed all of him. Every bit of her, down to her very core, seemed to yearn for him, to vibrate like a tightly strung lyre. And yet at the same time she felt as if she was melting, melting into his arms, moulding herself around him, her softness to the hardness of his body. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs against his strong, firm thighs as he pushed back against her. She felt as if she couldn't get enough of herself in contact with him. As his questing hands found the laces at the back of her dress she gave a breathy, almost desperate sigh, willing his strong archer's fingers to make quick work of the knots.

_Elbereth, lady of the starlight! Was this what it had felt like for Firiel, completely carried away by desire and need, all rational thought driven from her by the sensual onslaught of fingers, lips and tongue on her needy body?_ Then Eruanne froze. How could she let herself do this? With Thranduillion? No, no, a thousand times no. Her body stiffened within his grasp, hands pushing his chest away from her.

Legolas stopped. His brain was fogged by sheer want, but somehow the change in her posture was like a flagon of ice cold water poured over him. Moments earlier she had been writhing in his grasp, panting against him, urging him on with her every movement. And now...

Suddenly she wrenched herself from his embrace.

“No, no... I can't. I don't want this... Oh Valar, I want it but I don't want to want it...” 

She half expected him to drag her back into his arms, if she was truthful, half wanted it. But then to her surprise he simply reached out and took her hand, stroking the back of it with his long, slender fingers. He looked at her and she felt as though she was pierced to the core by those blue eyes.

“What is it that frightens you? What is it about me that frightens you?” His voice was low, gentle even.

Oh Elbereth, it was so very, very tempting to melt back against his body. She clung to the memory of Firiel, lying bleeding in her arms all those years earlier. Surely this was just a ruse – blood ran thicker than water. She could not let herself trust him. Must not let herself trust him. In any case, her people needed her. Without the sacred artefact that myth spoke of, she could not fight the Black Easterling.

With a sob, she pulled her hand from his and ran.

Legolas watched her retreating back. His mind whirled. So many conflicting emotions. By all the Valar he desired her, desired her more than anyone else in nearly 2000 years of existence. But at the same time he was exasperated by her, hurt by her rejection, angered that she'd... what? Led him on? No, that was not entirely fair. He had pressed her hard, too hard perhaps. And under it was a current of something he couldn't quite make sense of, some emotional connection, some desire for more than simply her yielding body beneath his.

Eruanne's POV

Never in her life had Eruanne felt so confused. When he touched her, her body seemed to catch fire. She wanted him with an intensity that seemed to consume her with white hot flames. But at the same time, the thing which had nearly undone her was his look of gentleness. Her desire she could put down to simple weakness – her will too feeble to resist his charms, just as Firiel had been too weak to resist those of his father. But that gentleness – it seemed to promise something more. Surely a false promise.

Then it hit her. In all the time in the tower, she had allowed herself to become so distracted, she had missed her opportunity to gain the map. She sank to the ground, burying her face in her hands. Slowly, she forced herself to breath in and out, reciting a prayer to Elbereth to still her mind. As she gradually regained control of herself, she started to calm, and with the growing sense of calm came a ray of hope. Radiating through her mind was a sensation she hadn't felt for so long. The presence of her soul mate – Naurwen.

Her heart singing, she focussed her mind on replying to Naurwen's call. _I am safe, I am well, I am coming to you, her mind sang out. Oh my dear heart._

And the answering thoughts washed over her, _I am well, let us roam the forests together once more..._

From the calm that Naurwen's presence brought to her came a new sense of purpose. Tomorrow, by the light of the stars before the dawn, she and Naurwen would return to this tower, retrieve the map and seek for the Window on the West.


End file.
